laughing at Jesus

{photo by jennifer upton}

I remember the first time I went to the mission. I don't remember how old I was, but I remember it was cold. I was with my grandfather and his friend, a chaplain whose name I can't recall. I know I was young.

and I remember the first time I ever heard someone laugh at the name of Jesus.

I had never seen a prostitute before. I don't think I even knew what the word meant. but I remember her clothes :: black leather jacket, hot pink shirt that plunged lower than anything I had ever seen. I remember her hair, box-blonde with obvious dark roots, piled up on top of her head. I remember the cigarette dangling from her fingers.

she was sitting behind me on the plastic chairs. the chaplain asked, when you hear the name Jesus, what do you think? and the woman laughed and screamed, holy schmoly. effing Christians!

the chaplain kept in stride, never breaking for a second. I remember that. he pointed to her and repeated the first part of her words like a teacher accepting answers from a crowd of boisterous students, glad they were speaking at all.

I don't remember anything else that was said after that. 

I had never heard someone respond that way to Jesus. I never even knew that existed, never knew that people thought that way about Christians. I was confused, hurt, a little girl who had grown up with Jesus from day one and never even dreamed that someone wouldn't like Him. why didn't she love Christians?

{photo by jennifer upton}

and then I grew up. and I started seeing that woman more often.

obviously it wasn't the same face. but the eyes were identical. I saw her everywhere, in crowds and in churches. I found her in the supermarket. I noticed her at the post office. I realized that I was friends with her.

and now I understand that laughter. I hear it differently. it was mocking, caustic, and was laden with so much pain. it was the sound of a woman who had been slapped and kicked and knocked down a thousand times, had reached out her hand, and had someone spit in her face.

she had been given up on by the ones who were supposed to be the hands and the feet. I don't know every step she took. but she is familiar to me now. her story is one I understand, her words are ones I completely comprehend.

He didn't come for us to look down, to refuse to meet the eyes of humanity. He was born for lifting up. for getting dirty. for putting on skin and blood and pain. He touched.

can't we?

Tracks

I travel not to go anywhere, but to go.  I travel for travel's sake.  The great affair is to move.  ~Robert Louis Stevenson

So many things in this world captivate the poet in me.

So many little things that go unnoticed by most...somehow, they draw me in, whispering for me to tell their story and share the truths locked within their silent beating hearts.

I don't dare turn a deaf ear to their pleas.

Train tracks sing such a song to me...one that I simply cannot ignore.

They speak of so many things...

 -- of strength, for how many courageous brides clutched their carpet bags to their chests as the clicking of the wheels drew them closer and closer to their yet-unmet grooms...

When Jacob saw Rachel...he kissed her on the mouth and began to weep.

-- of bravery, for how much youths gaze upon the train doors, worn suitcases at their feet, preparing to carry their broken souls and sunken eyes home to aching-hearted parents with white ribbons tied to trees...

Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you.

-- of love, for how many pairs of hands have brushed from window to platform, with now only letters to  keep them together...how many hands returned empty, and how many brushed palm-to-palm again with silver and gold bands to caress one against the other. 

Place me as a seal over your heart...for love is as strong as death. 

Yes, train tracks speak of so many wonders. The burdens they bear are full to the brim with so many stories of love and loss, of seats cracked with snuggling and windows stained with tears of longing and brokenness. 

Train tracks sing these powerful melodies...

...melodies best not ignored. 

And there is the headlight, shining far down the track, glinting off the steel rails that, like all parallel lines, will meet in infinity, which is after all where this train is going. ~Bruce Catton

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