I’m floored. Completely humiliated, almost guilty. But mostly in awe.
I’m trying to remember what it once felt like to be on fire, to have that constant burning of love, of what it means to serve. But constant is never a given, it’s a hunger that needs reminding, needs nurturing.. It needs work. My heart is trembling and my mind is blown at the very thought of what is happening.
George recalled the time we were
Cold. Dirty. And frustrated.
But we picked up the guitar and strummed and hummed along to a few broken chords. Huddled around a lamp trying to reason against faith.
Eggs were thrown, car was locked,
Faith grew Dim.
Seven years later, I now stand at a distance, watching the embrace of strangers, the contact and grounded ness of basic human need.
For a second, I felt like I didn’t deserve to live the life I did and currently do. Blessed or spoiled. Is it coincidence or with reason that I have this and you don’t? Or vice versa.
I didn’t want to talk about work. I didn’t want to discuss fancy food, or my job. I felt out of place. I fought back nostalgic tears. All I could think about was how the years have passed and what I had become. What I took for granted, most people were praying for.
Every week, G was here with others - making time to build ties with the sick, with the transients, with the people like us. They effortlessly gave a warm handshake and hug, a handful of quarters for clean clothes, a bottle of water, a slice of pizza and a new pair of socks. This wasn’t just charity. This was expressing true love for our neighbors, a calling we often lose sight of.
This was it. It rocked the very core of my beliefs - this was bigger than me. This, didn’t fit in the pages, within the confines of a box. But This… Is what love is.