I hate the curse. This plague of eveil, entrapment of sin. It looms doom, reaks of despair. I hate the Curse, I feel its bondage, I see its bondage. Like boney long fingers they reach around a person’s shoulder and settle there hardening like iron. Fears entertwine up the core of a being like an ivy vine on a tree, their barbed roots dig deep into soft skin and cling there. Fears steal away confidence, fears steal away accomplishment, fears steal away joy and hope. I hate seeing how fear encloaks the mind like blinders on a horse.
I hate the Curse. I hate it. Years and years of my parent’s marriage eaten away by the locusts. Pain and suffering all around me. Her grandmother in the hospital, her mother in a coma, his niece suffering massive brain damage. Anger running like toxic poison in her veins, complacency and contentment in instant gratification numbing the potentially bright change-agents, choosing ignorance instead of compassion. Suffering, wounded hearts and bodies strewn thick about me.
She called me Saturday morning, 2 days after she delivered a stillborn baby girl. Carried that little baby for 8.5 months in her womb, she was devastated. Going to the morgue instead of the nursery, planning a cremation and not a dedication, calling to give news about death instead of life, entering into grief instead of celebration, anger instead of rejoicing. But even in this, how can it be bitter sweet? The father doesn’t even know, hadn’t been involved past 2 months of pregnancy. She herself is a child in so many ways, raised up in foster care and the streets, struggling to stay at Community college. A little relief that she doesn’t have to fend for herself and a defenseless child as she is homeless, husband-less and jobless, quench that relief with massive guilt at the mere thought of such a thought. I hate the Curse, its bleeding, messy, festering rawness. Giving birth to death. it is all wrong.
I had dinner with him less than 2 weeks ago. He welcomed me into the family, as his brother is my boyfriend. We chatted about life- he is a young father, raising his 2 little boys, working at Red Robin on the weekends and going to class at the Cesar Chavez Center at night. He sat in our living room as the lesson was taught on Gang Culture and History. He and his buddy, active gang members, breaking it down for us, helping us see, giving new understanding and breaking stereotypes.
He sits just a couple blocks away from me now, behind bars in the Fresno Jail, convicted with murder. He shot him, wounded a girl. It wasn’t turf wars or drugs. It was a fistfight that got outta hand, they didn’t know each other, but were from the same neighborhood, same gang, representing the same thing. The families, which know each other are broken, the gang community is broken, they lost all 3, and all 3 were their own.
1 dead, 1 facing serious time in prison, a community searching. The desperate brokenness, the unashamed tears from hardcore gang members outside a Bulldog house. Their masked crying out for Truth, for Life, for the Way. They don’t know and it is an ugly dark blackness, it is a scary pit of dispair sucking them into depression.
Oh the void, oh the great divide between God and man! Oh the destruction that is causing havok in our relationships and our lives, our communities, our souls.
Who will save us? Who will cross the Great Divide?