Just up the street from the old
stone Norwegian Lutheran church
sits a dozen candles set in a cross
a few beer cans and tomatoes at the
makeshift altar where a small group huddles
in the cold, the wind whipping the ladies’ skirts,
words coating the watchers and wonderers:
“Who will separate us from the love of Christ? Will hardship, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword? As it is written,
‘For your sake we are being killed all day long;
we are accounted as sheep to be slaughtered.’ “
Blood and ugliness has been erased,
washed from the street,
but the pavement will never be fully cleansed
or innocent again.
Perhaps the group is standing on the very place that he died.
His body on the pavement, unable to sustain the beating.
And somewhere in this city a wife
and two children sift through grief.
The produce company where he worked
has a newly sharp vacancy.
The unassuming neighborhood,
houses with sagging porches,
windows covered in shades and shutters
A few curious cars creep by,
wondering at the group of church-goers
who look at the ground,
anywhere but each other,
because death is just too close right now.
The Bible-reader feels like giving up,
but something bubbles up in her voice,
pushing back despair and helplessness
so that the words continue to drift over the
“No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
The pastor prays for God
to embrace the victim, the human, with mercy and peace.
“I’ve been waiting for him to come home,” the victim’s neighbor stutters
as the pastor pulls her into an embrace.
A breath, a pause, and the people
walk back down the
cracked sidewalks that have seen more violence
than they ever should.