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.
Well, no one was dead or arrested. More challenges. But they are maintain’, as they say. Thanks be to God.
Glad to hear no d/a. D.O.A.? Dead or Arrested? New meaning.
Anyway, count me as one who wants to hear more about this part of your life.