Ecclesiastes: Eat, Drink, and be Merry? Is this "Bible?"

He was the wisest, richest, most admired and most powerful king Israel ever knew. His reign represented the high point of the Hebrew empire. Unlike his legendary father, the teen-aged giant killer who came from nothing to become Israel's first great king, Solomon started at the top, and went up from there. Entire books of scripture are attributed to him, and they range in subject matter from war and politics to child rearing and sex. Structures he built in Jerusalem are still standing today. His reputation for wisdom is of mythic proportions. It's hard to believe such a man ever really existed.

Until you open the "Book of the Preacher": Ecclesiastes. This is not the frightened young Solomon, newly crowned, asking God for the judgment to be a good king. Nor is it the handsome devil who won the Queen of Sheba's heart with a glance. This is a man who has done it all, seen it all, has it all, and finds it all to be meaningless. "Vanity of vanities," he mourns again and again, "all is vanity."

What do we accomplish with all our work? People are born and die. Seasons come and go. The sun rises and sets and nothing ever happens that hasn't happened a thousand times before. Nothing we do changes anything, and we will all be forgotten when we die. In the first of many chilling passages, Solomon grieves,

What is crooked cannot be made straight, and what is lacking cannot be numbered.

 All the wise king's pursuit of knowledge has taught him is that wisdom brings grief and knowledge increases sorrow. It changes nothing. It is meaningless. He calls it "grasping for the wind."

Adding to the vanity of life is the absence of justice. Good people suffer while evil ones thrive. Some live for pleasure, others for wisdom, but all end up in the same cold grave.

Next comes the strange hymn that many of my generation probably think was written by these guys.



In the jingle-jangle of 'Sixties Pop-Folk, the words seem sanguine as if to say, "it's a big world. There's room for everything, man. Things may have been bad, but they're going to get better." But in Solomon's mouth, the words lack the sweet smell of Patchouli and leather jackets. The preacher seems to hold up the absurdity of a life where everything is equal. We are born and we die. We plant and we pull up. We gain and lose, tear and sew, love and hate and there is a time for all of them. There is no virtue strong enough to eliminate the vice it mirrors. No peace lasting enough to prevent the next war. We work and strive and none of it makes a damn bit of difference.

And here the Preacher repeats a theme that will echo throughout the book.

Nothing is better for a man than that he should eat and drink, and that his soul should enjoy good in his labor. This also, I saw, was from the hand of God.

A modern reader can't help but trip over the passage. Is this really "Bible" I'm reading? Do the scriptures really tell us to quit worrying and be happy? Enjoy life and stop banging your head against walls that you can't break? How many sermons have you heard preached on Ecclesiastes? Not many, I'll wager. There are some pretty radical ideas in here.

I said in my heart, "concerning the condition of the sons of men, God tests them that they may see that they themselves are like animals... Surely, they all have one breath; man has no advantage over animals, for all is vanity.

We want to know we are important. We want to be the center of the universe. We want to mean something. But here is Solomon telling us that our lives have no more meaning than an ox or a mosquito. He also savages what we contemporary folk might call our "Puritan work ethic."

Again, I saw that for all toil and every skillful work a man is envied by his neighbor. This also is vanity and grasping for the wind... There is one alone without companion: He has neither son nor brother. Yet there is no end to all his labors, Nor is his eye satisfied with riches. But he never asks, "For whom do I toil and deprive myself of good?" This also is vanity and a grave misfortune.

 Then comes a strange little passage about something that is not meaningless at all: companionship.

Two are better than one, because they have a good reward for their labor. for if they fall, one will lift up his companion. But woe to him who is alone when he falls. for he has no one to help him up. Again, if two lie down together, they will keep warm. But how can one be warm alone? Though one may be overpowered by another, two can withstand him. And a threefold cord is not quickly broken.

Where can we find our treasure, then? In wages stored up after labor? In books we have written or the people who work for us or the "legacy" we build in a futile attempt to live on after we are dead? Vanity! Our one true pleasure comes from enjoying the company of the people we love, and who love us. There is no "meaning." There is only delight in the world God has made. Everything that exists is going to perish one day. There is no tomorrow. There is only today. At last, Solomon comes to a phrase that I have to confess I did not know came from the Bible.

So I commended enjoyment, because a man has nothing better under the sun than to eat, drink, and be merry; for this will remain with him in his labor for all the days of his life which God gives him under the sun.

The first question and answer from the old Westminster Catechism was, "What is the chief end of man? The chief end of man is to glorify God and enjoy Him forever." Solomon is much more terrestrial in his conclusion. He seems to be saying that our chief end is to glorify God and enjoy Creation for as long as we are allowed to be a part of it.

The meaning of life, it's purpose, our reason for being is Joy.

I could go on and on, but even in this, the wise old king has a warning.

Of making many books, there is no end, and much study is wearisome to the flesh.

It's just not that complicated...

Fear God, and keep His commandments, For this is man's all. For God will bring every work in to judgment, Including every secret thing, Whether Good or evil.

And how should we live?

It is good and fitting for one to eat and drink, and to enjoy the good of all his labor in which he toils under the sun all the days of his life which God gives him; for it is his heritage.

Joyful obedience. Grateful delight. A life dedicated to the pleasures that come from sharing God's creation with one another. That's why we're here. The rest? Riches? Glory? Status? Meaning?

... All is Vanity.

Home to the Mountains

I've been out of town for a couple of days, shooting commercials in the mountains of Eastern Kentucky. God but I love them. It's been a rainy summer, and the Appalachians are just verdant. I don't know if I've ever seen such greens.

It's a very different experience than the Rockies. Among the giants of the west, I felt awe: such a sense of smallness. Standing atop the peaks of Colorado, you are struck by what a tiny, insignificant speck you are in the universe. Your troubles seem to fade in comparison to the indescribable scale of a world where your eyes are not powerful enough to reach the horizon. There were times when I felt myself disappear in the Rockies, like a drop of water in the ocean.

The Kentucky mountains do not empty me. They fill me. Where the Rockies are jagged stone fingers pointing my eyes toward heaven, the Appalachians are round, soft breasts drawing my heart toward the earth.

We awoke each morning to fog that would make a claustrophobic whimper. The dew-kissed black top rolled under our vehicles as oncoming headlights glowed toward us in the opposite lane. The hollows seemed reluctant to waken, keeping their covers pulled up tight to prevent the morning light from poking in and interrupting the night's final dream.

We crossed over the dam that holds back Paintsville Lake and parked our cars in the brightening mist. Mountain Homeplace is a working farm, run as much as possible like it was when David Mackenzie and his family built it in 1860. You step over the split rail fence and cross into a world of unpainted log buildings and old wooden gates held closed with grass string. Later, guides dressed in authentic homespun will walk the grounds, sharing the history of the place with the visitors who happen by. At this early hour though, we are welcomed by the scolding goats who expect the first humans in the morning to bring breakfast, not cameras and make-up cases.

While the crew set up for the day's first shot, I wandered from pen to pen, greeting the neighbors. In the goat pen, a pair of kids butted their mothers insistently till the teat was offered, then the little ones sucked while the rest of the community eyed me suspiciously. A pair of tiny cows came to the fence curiously, and allowed me to scratch them between the ears till it became clear I had nothing more than friendship to offer. Nearby, but always out of reach, the sheep gathered close, one brave soul after another bawling out at me to either start serving some vittles or move along. Closer to the barn, a piggy couple were downright belligerent, huffing and snorting indignantly that I had interrupted their sleep for no better reason than to satisfy my own curiosity. Across the yard, the ladies in the hen house stirred nervously, and an unseen rooster crowed out a warning to anyone who might try to disturb his happy

harem. As I peeked into the barn, I was greeted by a little gray mother and her kitten. The cats bounded warily around my feet like folks who were used to avoiding being stepped on. And there at the back of the barn were Sunny and Ted, the only animals on the place who I ever heard being referred to by name. Sunny is a beautiful buff horse with a friendly, trusting nature and just enough of a glint in his eye to make you think he might find his way into some mischief from time to time. Ted is the undisputed king of the place. He magnificent: broad chested and black with shoulders and hips that ripple with muscle. He seems to be the animal they had in mind when they came up with the word "horsepower." Watching him chomping quietly on grass in the pasture, it's easy to imagine him in medieval dress with a knight astride his stout back. But here in the barn, he condescends to give me a nod and a nuzzle with his enormous head. I offer a scratch and a short massage in return. The lesser inhabitants made me feel like an intruder. Ted greets me like an honored guest.

Back up on the porch, I find an ancient, cane woven, ladder back chair and park myself on it to wait for the light and watch the curtain of morning burn away in the rising sun. Gently, the sides of the valley in which we are sheltered begin to appear, first in soft focus, then in greater relief as the daylight warms each leaf and dries the dew-soaked grass. A flock of pigeons circles from the roof of the barn to the side of the hill where the sheep are grazing. A few brave souls light in the hog lot where the pigs have left a few morsels of corn in their trough. The surly inhabitants usually indulge them, but now and then an angry snort will send a cloud of gray wings exploding up from the mud as the flock rises out of harm's way.

I wish I were enough of a naturalist to tell you about the music of the mountains: the millions of insect and bird voices that join together to create an Appalachian symphony that Aaron Copeland could not even dream of. This isn't just background music, it is the heartbeat of the hollows and it fills every lonely corner of your soul with something so holy that no human artist could ever hope to imitate it. It is the rhythm of life. It is the song of Creation. There under the cedar shake porch roof, I breath it in, smiling without meaning to. Feeling welcomed into a place I've never been, and where I couldn't survive on my own for more than a week, I am filled with silent prayers of thanksgiving, even as the  among the actors and crew turns toward the tasks at hand, and the work of the day begins.

Shooting commercials is easy for an actor. You only have to learn a few sentences of dialogue, and the shots are short and quick. The crew's job is to sweat the details. Your job is to hit your marks, say your words, and tell the truth. Most of this group has worked together before, so the mood is easy. We trust one another and joke between takes. What could be a day of tedium is actually several hours of down-right fun. It's almost embarrassing to call it work, especially when the people whose job it is to keep the farm running are around. But they are friendly and hospitable. We aren't the first bunch of Lexingtonians to make our way down the Mountain Parkway to interrupt their day, and we enjoy one another's company like new neighbors. Stories are shared. Lies are told. We all admire the way Ted's ebony sides glow in the sunshine and we all groan and cuss when the wind changes and blows the aroma of the hog yard in our direction.

The final shot on the last day was in the church-house where Kentuckians have been worshiping for 150 years. The pews are old and hard, roughly crafted from the same trees as the barn and the well head. The log walls are clad with white painted wainscot, and the light ripples through the ancient glass of the sash pane windows. We work with the same joy and fun as we did in the barnyard, but there is a kind of gentle reverence to our presence here. Yes, our mission is more profane than sacred, and no, I don't imagine that many of the pastors who have presided here would approve, but I can't help but notice that most of the fellows have instinctively removed their hats at the door. As father of the "bride" in this scene, I am seated in the front pew, and next to me is a beautiful lady who looks to have spent 80 or so winters in these mountains. She starts with a complaint about how long the shoot is taking, but soon we are chatting easily about her health and her life, and her pride in the place where we are gathered. The people who hate life in these mountains leave as soon as they can, by any means available. But the ones who love them stay and grow roots as thick and deep as any tree on the hillsides. She has raised and buried children and grandchildren, survived strokes, heart attacks, falls and storms. She is stronger than I will ever be, and when we part, I feel as if I have been in the presence of royalty. I suppose I have.

Back in Lexington, I feel a kind of sadness. I'm glad to be home. Close to the Y and the people I love. But sad, too. Sad that I couldn't share those beautiful moments with Martha. Sad that as a city boy, I will never really be at home in the mountains. Mum sent me a message this morning. "Back to reality." She's right, I guess. I'm back to the reality of  bills and debts and housekeeping and insurance payments. But there is also love here. Friends. The people who come to my exercise classes. The kids who run with me. The healing work that continues in my mind and soul. Reality isn't all bad.

But there is reality in the hollows, too. There is light that melts away darkness. There are fences to maintain and lives to honor and care for. And always there is the land, the rich earth that covers the mountains and feeds every living thing in them. The Appalachians are the breasts of God. They feed me and inspire me like no other place in this beautiful world. One of our actors, a beautiful young woman whom I've had the joy of watching grow up for most of her life, was leaving the shoot to board a train to move to New York City. She is following the dream that so many of us have followed. Talking with her, sharing her excitement and nervous anticipation, I remembered my own move to "The City," many years ago. When we parted, I kissed her forehead and blessed her, and before I left, I gave her my only advice.

"Hold this day in your heart. This is a special place. Sometime, you're going to need it."

I hope she has the sense to listen to a foolish old man. Days in the mountains are worth holding onto.

I know I'm sure going to try to hold onto mine.

Peace,
Bob

Healing Begins at Home

"Arthur" ~ Steven D. Fleshman

Lonely. That's what I'm feeling these days. I am almost always by myself, and I find I am not very good company. And that is a problem.

For as long as I can remember, I have brought home trophies. "I'm singing a solo." "I won an award!" "I got the part!" "I kissed a girl."

I have carried these things home to parents, lovers, friends. "Look!" my heart was saying. "Look what these strangers think of me!" Why did they matter so much to me?

Because I believed they were wrong. Where they saw talent, intelligence, strength, and compassion, I saw only luck, fear, and selfishness. I crafted myself like an essayist, working every day to guide the reader in the direction I wanted them to go. See how funny I am. Look at how much I know. Laugh at me. Learn from me. Admire me. But for God's sake, don't look too close. 

Don't see how afraid I am to get out of bed some mornings, knowing that sooner or later, you're going to discover that I'm faking it.

Don't see the hours it takes me to finish reading a paragraph or memorize a scene because my mind just can't hold onto words.

Don't hear my sobs of self pity for the choices I've made and the consequences I never thought through.

Please turn out the light so you don't notice that after all this running and writing and dieting, I'm still ashamed of how I look naked. 

Please pretend with me that the judges and the bosses and the audiences and the reviewers are right and I am wrong. Love whatever you imagine is lovable about me, but please, God, please don't look close enough to see all the things that are not.

All these years, trying to prove something I didn't really believe. Trying to build an image of the man I wished I was. Longing to be loved for being someone I knew didn't exist. I became convinced that every failed relationship, every lost job, every faded friendship was because of a hole in the wall I had built around myself. Sooner or later, if they looked closely enough, they would see the things that were wrong with me, and they would hate them as much as I did. And they would hate me.

And now I am lonely.

A few days ago, someone posted something on Facebook that really rattled me.

Do I want my marriage back? I'm not sure. Do I want someone else? I can't tell. But out of the fog of my loneliness, something is becoming more and more clear. The relationship that needs healing the most is the one I have with myself. 

Fifty-three years old, and I'm just now getting around to figuring out who the hell I am. 

I know the vices. I can recite them like a litany. But somewhere in me there are virtues, too. The facade I build didn't come from a vacuum. The man I wanted people to see was built out of the best parts of me. That's the man they loved and respected. But I couldn't believe in him because I had treated him like an artist's palette, picking each color carefully. I need to see him too. I need to nurture him.

I've been using my strength to hide my weakness. Using the judgments of others to contradict my own self blame. Using my pride to disguise my shame.

It's time to open my arms a little wider. God has more in mind for me than this.

I am lonely. But in my loneliness, there is an opportunity that I've never really had before. For maybe the first time, I have a chance to look at my whole self with open eyes. There is no one here to fool. No one to hurt. No one to impress. No one to lose. I have a chance to receive the thing I have tried and failed to earn... unconditional love. To lay myself all out on the table, good and bad, sins and graces, and wrap my arms around the whole package and say, "I love you, you big beautiful messy man." 

That's not going to happen today. Or tomorrow. But it has to happen. Because I long to touch someone again. But I've spent half a century building a wall to hide half a man from the people I want to love. And it's going to take a whole man to tear that wall down.

It's time to start making this man right. With himself.

This is going to be a lot harder than running a marathon.

Peace,

Bob

#472: Running with a Friend

There is a sacred fellowship, a holy communion that passes between friends who run together. 

On the road, with people I love, we share stories of promises broken and kept. Relationships in trouble. Battles with depression and financial hardship and the pain of being alone and the joy of being married. As the miles roll by, hearts are bound together in the hushed music of footfall and breath. Sometimes one leads, then the other. Sometimes side by side.

There is fun and celebration in running with a group or in a race. Glorious solitude awaits the lone runner on the early morning streets of the neighborhood, but to run with a friend, wordlessly drinking in the world together... this is holy.

A winter morning, the Bluegrass hills looking like a snow globe as the two of you come to the crest of a hill, only to see half a dozen deer glide weightlessly over the barbed wire fence, across the road, and disappear into the whitening trees.

A frigid day, racing the rain, spent coming to know an old internet acquaintance who you've never met in real life, and crossing the finish line hand in hand, knowing that a faceless cyber connection has been forged into a life-long friendship.

Struggling through the afternoon heat with a pal who won't let you get a word in edgewise because the past few days have been so overwhelming and sometimes you just need someone to hear what you have to say.

Running hard, side by side in the morning mist, then stopping dead in your tracks together, overcome by the unspeakable beauty of a cool stream and a clear waterfall and an ancient mill. No language is necessary; you breath the clean, moist air. No one else will ever share this moment with you, and you both know it. This is sacred.

One of my favorite prayers in the Episcopal liturgy is part of the Eucharist: 

Deliver us from the presumption of coming to this Table for solace only, and not for strength; for pardon only, and not for renewal. 

That's why I say running together is communion. On the road, in the hills, on the streets and trails if find peace and consolation, redemption even. But there is so much more there. Every run makes us stronger, teaches us confidence and humility, and if we are very lucky, it binds us together as friends in ways that nothing else I know about can do. This is fellowship. This is communion.

I ran with my friend this morning, on a course where in a few weeks, we will both be racing in a half-marathon. He is younger, stronger, and faster than me, (though not as good looking.) We will not see much of one another once that race has started, but because of the time we shared this morning, and on so many other mornings together, I will have him right by my side. When my breath feels labored, I will hear his stories. When my legs are heavy, I will see his infuriatingly steady pace just ahead of me, drawing me along like a locomotive pulling freight. Once you run with a friend, you never really run alone again. 

Peace,

Bob

Birthday Serenity

God, give me grace to accept with serenity

the things that cannot be changed,

Grace... it's the gift that you don't have to earn. It's the thing you can never get on your own. Grace is the blessing that cannot be bought or sold, only freely given and received.
Serenity... the gift of peace with yourself. Calling a truce with your own flaws and faults. I acknowledge all that I am today, and embrace the person God created me to be... the person I choose to be.
So much of life is beyond my grasp and control. Circumstances. Situations. The choices other people make or don't make. In spite of all my best efforts, my health can still fail me. Neurons misfire. Chemicals flood or dry up. Rogue cells can grow into tumors, no matter how many green vegetables I eat.
I cannot change natural law... natural consequences. To embrace that, I must release my hold on this. Pick up one end of the stick, and you  must pick up the other. I can choose how much of myself I share with you, but I cannot change the way you react to what you see.

Courage to change the things

which should be changed,

Courage is the triumph of love over fear. It is the act of will that says, " I will try to do what I know is right, no matter the cost or consequence." Courage is not satisfied with half-measures and good intentions. It is action. It is force. Courage sees the potential for good in the world, and refuses to accept past failure as destiny.

and the Wisdom to distinguish

the one from the other.

The fool shakes his fist at the clouds,
While the sage is building a shelter for the village...

Living one day at a time,

Enjoying one moment at a time,

Ashamed of yesterday,
Afraid of tomorrow,
I will be left paralyzed...
blind to the magnificent possibilities of today.
I cannot redeem what has been lost, or control what is to come,
I can only accept the grace of Now,
The gift of God that is this moment
My moment
To fill with love or fear
With life, or living death.

Accepting hardship as a pathway to peace,

And when the obstacles come, as they must
May I see them for what they are...
Life passing by
Water flowing along the sides of the ship of my life,
Events and circumstances.
Time and space,
The river of life whose channel I navigate
As each eddy and current presses me this way or that
As branches and garbage float in my path
Sand bars
Floods
Wind and ice
Each showing me more about the river and my own little part in it.
They are my teachers
Guiding me toward safe harbor

Taking, as Jesus did,

This sinful world as it is,

Not as I would have it,

"Thy will be done," he prayed. Not because he accepted the injustice and cruelty of this world, but because he knew that only open eyes can see what is and what is not. How many times have I looked at the world through the filter of my own desire?, my own interpretations? How often have I seen what I wanted to see, choosing to ignore whatever did not fit into the framework of my own imagination? To see the world as Jesus did is to look through God's eyes, not our own. It is to accept each creature as a being with integrity and flaws. It is to respect... to look again and again... always searching the heart, not the surface... always seeking the truth of what is, never settling for the smoky reality of what I believe might be.
And finally, seeing through God's eyes means honoring the choices that other people make. God has the power to bend any creature to his will, but chooses to allow us the freedom to act according to our own conscience instead. God grants us that dignity... we are free to be who we are. If I am to embrace the world as God does, I can do no less.

Trusting that You will make all things right,

If I surrender to Your will,

And it is that surrender, that submitting to things as they are that is the hardest part, isn't it? To accept that all things are as they should be feels weak somehow. Complacent. The sick are sick because that is God's will? The poor? The suffering? Is there nothing to be done?
There is a lot to be done. But change requires two things: serenity and courage. It requires the serenity to accept the truth of things as they are, and the courage to seek and obey God's guidance as you work to make the wrong things right.
So I surrender to God's will, I accept the things I cannot change, but I never surrender to the fear and death that keep me from serving my Creator and the creation of which I am a steward.

So that I may be reasonably happy in this life,

And supremely happy with You forever in the next.

And what is it to be happy? It is to live at peace with yourself, with creation, with your Creator. To be happy is to live in love with the world, and see it through the courageous eyes of one who is not afraid of the truth. To be happy in this word, or any world, is to embrace a spirit of gratitude for the lessons of the past, for the possibilities of the future, and for opportunity of the present.
I'm 53 years old today. And I am blessed. I have people who love me. I have a life that has come close to ending more times than I can count. I have lost most of my worldly wealth, but in that loss, I have become as rich as anyone. I continue to grow. I continue to learn. I continue to run. And I thank God for all that I have.
It's a hard lesson... but after half a century and then some... I believe that I'm learning to be happy.

Amen.

Peace,
Bob

#471: Thank you, Thank you, Thank you!

I just mailed a letter to 50 of the most inspiring people I know. Each of them contributed to a fundraiser I held this spring in conjunction with my attempt to complete the Flying Pig Marathon in Cincinnati.  When I think of the song "Wind Beneath My Wings," these are the people I remember. Their encouragement and support help to keep this Fat Man Running.

July 13, 2013

Dear Friends,

Thank You, Thank You, Thank You! 

It has been three months now since the Flying Pig Marathon in Cincinnati, and the conclusion of the fundraiser you helped to put over the top: Living Strong at the Y 2013. Our goal this year was an ambitious one: $7000. Thanks to your generosity, we smashed through that wall and raised $7551. That is beyond anything we expected or hoped for. You taught me a lesson. No goal is too high when we reach for it together.

Thank You for Supporting Our Survivors

Your dollars are already at work in the LIVESTRONG® at the YMCA program at the North Lexington Family YMCA, and every penny is going toward helping cancer survivors and their families to enjoy the benefits of fitness, healthy eating, and new friendships, many of which will last a lifetime. I am so grateful to you for making all that happen. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

Thank You for Running with Me

My very ambitious personal goal was to beat my 06:21:53 time in the 2012 Pittsburgh Marathon by an hour. I didn't quite do that, but I was able to finish in 5:42:35... almost 40 minutes faster. I was proud of that effort, and the special "Buck a Minute" pledges that it raised. I know that 5:21:53 target is still out there waiting for me. Your support and kind thoughts will help me to get there before much longer.

Thank You for Sticking with Us

I'm already planning and dreaming for next year. After consulting with the folks at the LIVESTRONG foundation down in Austin, I've decided to change the name of our project from Living Strong at the Y to Run Bob, Run. I checked with them because I was concerned that the original name of our project was too similar to the trademark “LIVESTRONG,” and might be confusing to people. Together, we came up with a title that reflects the focus and personal nature of our work. If you would like to visit the new online site, the address is http://www.crowdrise.com/runbobrun2014/fundraiser/pennsy

I haven't settled on next year's event, but be sure it will be a fun one. I'm thrilled with the things we have accomplished together, and can't wait to see where the next few months will lead us.

On behalf of the YMCA, the LIVESTRONG foundation, and the survivors and families who will benefit from your gifts, thank you. LIVESTRONG at the YMCA is alive and growing thanks to you. I hope you have a safe and joyful remainder of your summer.

Peace,

Bob

Trayvon and George

Two frightened men met on the street that night.
Each alert
To a threat
That wasn't there.
One wanted a safe neighborhood.
The other wanted a snack.
Two innocent men
Taught to be afraid

Ships that should have passed in the night
Set on a collision course by
Faulty guidance,
Each saw only the shadow of a hull
Not the passenger on board.

Familiar silhouette in an unfamiliar place,
The swing of the hips
The roll of the shoulders
Hands full
Head covered
Everything he knew about strangers told him
The boy was Trouble.

Raised on tales of lynch mobs
And tow chains
Fire hoses and burning crosses
He heard the footsteps
And knew what they meant.
Fight or run. Live or die.
No lynchings tonight.
Not this time.

Crouching in the dark
Stalking the stalker
Did he hear his own frightened young heart,
Or just the angry blood roaring in his ears?

Stepping carefully
His target lost,
Was there a moment when he wished
He had listened to warnings to wait?

And as they rolled on the ground
One driven by outrage
The other over-matched and in pain,
Did their eyes ever meet?
Did they ever get the chance to see
How very afraid the other man was
On that dark, dirty street?

Did time stop?
After the explosion?
As one lay bleeding into the other?
Before  the heart squeezed into silence?
Did they learn the truth, even then?
As one light went out?
And the other slipped into shadow forever?

Two frightened men met on the street that night.
Each alert
To a threat
That wasn't there.
Terrified
By their own imaginations.
Two innocent men
Taught to be afraid.

May God have mercy
On their teachers' souls.