Death and life. Grief and celebration. Despair and hope. How can a single night encompass all of these seemingly conflicting notions?
At the Heeding God's Call rally/witness against gun violence yesterday, we mourned the death of an 18-year-old young man, shot and killed this week in our neighborhood. He would've been a senior this fall. I've been to my share of rallies, and the songs and words are always meaningful, but this one was different. As we marched down Crescent St. yelling "what do we want?" "PEACE" "what do we need?" "JUSTICE" the words caught in my throat as we came to the boy's house. Dozens of his family members, friends, and neighbors were gathered, covering the family's porch and spilling out onto the sidewalk. You could see the sharp pain of grief in their faces, as they clung to eachother, and cried, and remembered. The service we held with them was brief, singing hymns, offering prayers, coming together to offer what small comfort and solidarity that we might be able to.
But as we stood there, shoulder-to-shoulder with the people who knew this man, something in me broke. This was suddenly no longer a news article, a statistic, a political or ideological issue - this was REAL. The awful reality of someone being snatched from those who love him hit me, and I cried - for them, for their grief that I couldn't even understand, but could see so clearly. For him, for the life that he wouldn't get to finish. For the unfairness of it all. For the absolute helplessness I felt.
People said different things to try to make sense of what is senseless. "These kids need jobs." True. "You gotta be saved by the blood of Jesus." True. "You can't take the funding from schools." True. "Gotta get the guns off the streets." True. It's all true, but there is no one answer - it's all of it, everything. Kids have to have access to good education, have to have opportunities for jobs, need to be encouraged and supported at home, need to have Jesus change their hearts and their lives. And we do need to get the guns and the drugs off the streets - but this couldn't be about a political platform or a call to conversion, not in the midst of a family's grief. None of that would bring their son, their brother, their friend back. The most valuable thing we could do was be there, crying and praying with them as Jesus would, as our hearts were breaking.
Filled with a deep sadness, I left there to go to the Joshua Farm's 5-year celebration. As I arrived, some folks were putting primer up for a mural. The field was bursting with life, multitudes of thriving vegetables and fruit and flowers everywhere. People were everywhere, enjoying the delicious snacks made from the farm's produce, sharing good conversations with old friends or new acquaintances, and admiring all the good things the farm embodies. Kids were running around, and wonderful music drifted from the live band playing. There was so much joy in that place, and I couldn't help but smile and laugh and marvel at God's goodness in it all. This was where there was life, and in abundance. And so I celebrated - the hard work of dear friends who run the farm, the good people coming together over it, the music - the food - the laughter - the kids, it was all so good, and I was so grateful to be there to share in it, to bear witness to God's goodness.
This joyous event does not negate the pain of a life lost, but nor are they totally divorced from eachother. The Joshua Farm works with at-risk youth in the community, providing jobs and teaching skills, as they provide fresh, affordable produce to the community. So I have to believe that there is hope yet. That on the same night we mourn a death, we are also celebrating life. And that God is there, weeping and rejoicing with us.
