Some of you know that I have mentored some young men (from Dayton) for the past 12 years. (Am I old enough to have done anything for 12 years? Yikes. I guess.) I should write about it in more detail sometime – the young men and their families are amazing and they have been huge joys and lights and points of learning in my life. I love them dearly.
Anyway, one of the young men (they are in their early twenties now) and his partner are going to have a baby. And a truck was set on fire in their backyard a few weeks ago. And he has no job. And his grandpa is sick. And… and… and…
Every time I see his name on my caller ID my stomach drops. I can almost guarantee it is not good news or it is a call for financial help. And how much to help? How to help? I don’t want to project all my anxieties about the dreadful state of inner-city life and racism on my young friends. Yet, it rushes over me in too many ways each time we’re in touch. I cringe at the injustice they live with every. single. day. Like a heavy rain that never stops. They don’t notice it as much as I do because they are used to it. Strong. Numb. Whatever.
Anyway, I need to return the phone call and hope that no one is dead or arrested. I used to say just don’t tell me anyone is dead, arrested or pregnant. I gave up the third one.
May God be with them. With us all.