Seven Years

What a rotten day. Nothing had gone right. Someone had drawn a caricature of him, calling him a pothead, and posted it on several bulletin boards. Now his girlfriend was mad and refusing to talk to him. He kicked at a pebble and sent it careening under a car. If he found out who did that, he’d break their windshield – forget that, he’d break their face. His friends were still offish since the brush with the police last week – huh, as if he could call them real friends. He reached his truck in the middle of the high school parking lot and gave the tire a vicious kick. Even his truck was old and rarely started with the first crank. It had been his dad’s before him. He pushed the thought away quickly and opened the door. A flutter of paper caught his eye. Someone had stuck something under his wiper blade. He walked around the truck, grabbed it and shoved it in his pocket without looking at it. It was probably another copy of the caricature. It wasn’t until he was climbing out of the truck in his driveway that he paused to unfold it. His face suddenly went pale. It was Dad’s handwriting.

Marc –

I heard you were going to this school now. I’m glad to see the old truck is still running. But, that’s not why I’m writing.

Marc, you might hate me. I wouldn’t blame you if you did. But, I’ve changed. I want to try to right the wrongs as best I can. I was so stupid to give you and your mother up for nothing.

If you forgive me, Marcus, write and tell me at this address: 2561 Azalea Trail, West Point, TX 72758

Love, Your Dad, Shawn Cullen

He leaned his head back against the truck and closed his eyes, his heart racing. His hands crumpling the letter into a wad.

“Dad?” It was his own voice, from years ago, high-pitched and childish. He was nine years old and shaking. “Dad? Where are you going?”

Dad didn’t look up from shoving his things into the suitcase. “Ask your mom.” His voice was bitter and filled with barely contained rage.

Marc’s hands were shaking as he grabbed at his father’s coat. “Dad, what’s going on?” He shook him off roughly. Marcus looked to his mother, but she was just looking on with sad, silent eyes.

Desperation took over. Marcus took hold of the suitcase and jerked with all his might, sending it to the floor. The contents scattered across the floor. Quickly he grabbed them and threw them across the room. “Don’t leave, Dad, don’t –“

There was a sudden blow to his mouth and he sat down hard, his lip bleeding. “Leave my stuff be, brat!” Dad roared, furious.

Marcus saw the booted foot lift and tried to dodge, but it hit him in ribs and sent him spinning. He lay there crying and gasping for air and he clutched at his side as his father grabbed his stuff and walked out.

Seven years. Seven years of silence, anger, pain. Seven years of hatred. Marcus was sixteen now, with a criminal record full of drug-related offenses. Sixteen with his wrists scarred from cutting. Suddenly Marcus whirled and jumped back into the truck. The engine gunned on the third try and he backed quickly out of the driveway.

The town was three hours away, but he seemed to arrive in no time at all. He pulled up in front of a row of duplexes. Jumping out, he ran, stumbling, to the door marked 2561. He knocked and waited, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe, resting his chin on his chest. His blonde hair curtained his face. The door opened slowly, “Marc?”

Marcus didn’t move.

“Marc, does your mother know you’re here?”

“What do you think?” His tone was sarcastic. He shifted his weight to the other foot. “Dad? Why didn’t you care?”

His Dad looked a little taken aback. He had been prepared for questions on why he left, but not this. “Marc –“

“Was I not important to you at all? I’ve struggled with drugs, cutting, even suicide. Now I’m asking, Dad, did you care?” As he finished, he finally looked up to see tears flowing down his father’s face.

His father reached out and wrapped his arms around him. “I’ve not done right by you, but now I’ve found a Father in heaven that you need more than you need me.”

Washed in Rain

This was another one that I wrote up for faithwriters.com. The topic was "The Sense of Touch". Sorry if it's a little overly brutal.

Dawn glimmers over the edge of city of Caracas and shines into my eyes. I squint into it, then look away as it grows too bright. A light rain is falling and I’m sopping wet. I run my fingers through my black hair and shake my head, sending drops spinning in every direction. I sit up and shiver in the slight wind. Bianca is sleeping beside me, under the skimpy protection of a stone archway. I pull the blanket up around her shoulders. The streets were empty and quiet. Too quiet. I stand and walk the length of the block, looking for the cause of the silence. My heart beats faster and I run back to where Bianca is. It begins to rain harder and she stirs. “Tiago?” She calls.

“I’m here.” I answer.

She rubs her eyes and opens them. Beautiful black eyes framed with long lashes – beautiful, but sightless. She lifts her head and listens. “Rain.” She sniffs and smiles, “It’s so pretty, Tiago, so clean smelling.” Poor child, she doesn’t really know what pretty is. “Rain is God’s way of washing away all the bad in the city.”

“Yeah.” I mumble, glancing up the street again.

Bianca pushes her hair away from her face, then stops and cocks her head to listen. I think she’s hearing the rain, but now her face grows puzzled. “There’s shouting.”

I look out, but see nothing. Listen, but hear nothing above the drumming rain. Suddenly a jeep roars onto the street and squeals to a stop. Soldiers pile out, unslinging their guns as they hit the ground. From up the street, rapid gunfire rips the quiet to shreds. The communist revolution has come to Caracas. I look down in concern as Bianca jerks sharply, but it is only in surprise at the sudden blast of noise. “What’s that?”

“Fighting.” I answer, trying to move farther back n the archway. “The communists have reached the city.” With all her seven years, Bianca knows nothing of the danger behind the explosions. The sound means no more than hammering to her.

She lifts her head and sniffs the air. “It’s bitter.” It takes me a moment to realize that she is speaking of the smell of the gunpowder.

As I grow more nervous, she slowly relaxes. Suddenly a bullet tears through my shoulder and I barely manage to keep from screaming. I clench my fists and grit my teeth, I gasp with the pain. Don’t scare her. Don’t scare her. Blood quickly soaks into my shirt and runs down my arm. Bianca looks up at the sound of my labored breathing. “Tiago? Are you ok?”

“I’ll be ok.”

She nods, oblivious to my pain, and reaches out to feel the rain running off roof. The battle rages around us, but she sees none of it, it’s nothing but noise and strange smells. Shouting? She hears it all the time on the street. Her hand follows the line of drips from the roof a slight smile lighting her face. Her hand comes under my elbow and my blood flows onto her hand. She starts and pulls back in surprise at the sudden warmth. She puts her stained hand to her face and sniffs it curiously. “Blood?” She guesses.

“I’m – shot.” My voice holds pain and Bianca picks the tone out immediately.

“You hurt your arm on something?” She asks. “Don’t worry. Just hold it under the rain. The rain will wash it all clean.”

Ah, child, if only rain could scrub out the stain of battle. The battle continues around us, but Bianca smiles and puts her hand back under the rain drops, feeling the splashing water with delight.

Into America: Part 5

The first night they spent on the streets of Juárez, José left Roberto for awhile to go ask about getting across the border. He came back well after midnight, tired and silent. “Nothing.” He said. That was the only word Roberto could get from him.

The next day he went again and the next and the next. Walking up and down asking anyone who looked helpful, “What papers do I need to get across the border? Where can I get them?” But no one said anything helpful. The boys had no birth certificates, and so, no way to get legal papers.

Then José found a man who told him, “I’ll make you a deal.”

“What sort of deal?” José asked.

“I’ll make you papers and give you twenty dollars to start life in America. All you and your brother have to do is a little work for me.”

“What work do you need?” José asked, excited.

“Oh, it’s nothing hard. I have a man in El Paso who needs a few packages brought to him. You’ll carry them to him. That’s all.”

José paused and looked at him nervously. “Carry something across?”

“Nothing big and I’ll give you the papers and twenty dollars.”

José bit his lip and thought it over. He knew what the man wanted him to carry – drugs. If he was caught with his load, he’d be arrested. But, if he didn’t carry it, they would never get any papers. He had promised Roberto that he would get them both across. He told Roberto to trust him and now he had to do something. He would carry it all, that way Roberto would never be arrested. He had to take the responsibility. But he didn’t want to do it at all; he was scared. He wished he could go home, but there was no food or money at home. He saw no way out. Slowly, he nodded. “Alright. I’ll do it.”

Into America Part 4

The train slowed as it entered Juárez station. “End of the line! Get off! End of the line!” The conductor yelled.

Roberto and José waited clung to the side of the train and waited until the train stopped. As soon as it jerked to a halt, they dropped to the ground and started to run. No one noticed they ragged boys running out of the station. As soon as they were well away from the train, José stopped. “Juárez! We made it, Roberto! Look! That’s America right over there!”

They were standing on a hill and below them they could see the city spread out. Behind them was the famous mountain with the words “the Bible is the truth, read it” in large Spanish letters. Through the middle of the city in front of them, splitting the city in two was a river with high fences and walls on both sides. “See?” José pointed. “Everything this side of the river is Juárez and everything on that side is called El Paso. It’s in America.”

Roberto stared at America, so near and yet so far. “How are we going to get there? There’s a big fence. Can we take the big bridge over there? All the cars are going across.”

José shook his head. “No. I asked about that already. You have to show an I. D. and we don’t have one.”

“How are we going to do it then?” Roberto asked.

José shrugged, “Oh, there are ways of getting a fake I.D. We just have to ask someone.”

“But,” Roberto pointed out. “They might want money for a fake I.D.”

José grinned and ran his hand through his little brother’s hair. “Don’t WORRY, Roberto. I’ll figure something out. I have this under control.”

Into America: Part 3

Roberto hesitated, the train was going so fast – what if he got hurt? He was not as brave as his brother, José. But the police were coming, and he needed to get off. Now. He felt under his shirt and gripped his cross necklace, gritted his teeth, and jumped into the darkness. He hit the ground and tumbled roughly. His head hit a rock and he stopped, dazed. All around him were shouts and screams of the illegal passengers of the train trying to jump off or struggling with the police. The train had stopped and the police were searching it, trying to catch all of the people riding it without a ticket. “Roberto! Roberto!” José’s voice shouted in the dark, “Where are you?”

Roberto sat up, holding his hand to his head. “I’m here. My head hurts.”

José dropped his bag to the sand and ran his hand over Roberto’s head. “Let me feel it.” He pulled off his shirt and held it to Roberto’s forehead. “You’re bleeding, but just hold this against it. You’ll be ok.”

Roberto was badly frightened and shaking. He started to cry. José wrapped his arms around him. “Shh. Shh. It’s going to be ok, little brother. You’ll be ok. Listen, we won’t try to jump on this train again. We’ll wait for the next one. Would you like that better?” Roberto sniffed and nodded. José carefully helped him up and picked his bag up. “Come on. Let’s find somewhere to sleep.”

Into America Part 2

Here is the next part of the same series:

It grew dark and Roberto shivered. José walked endlessly back and forth, back and forth on the running board, trying to stay warm. The high desert at night can be quite cold. “What are we going to do in the United States?” Roberto asked.

José stopped and looked at him. “We will work. We will get a job.”

Roberto wrapped his arms around himself, trying to get warm. The train rumbled on; on and on and on. “Will they hire us? I’m only twelve and you are fourteen. Who will hire us?”

“Someone will hire us.” José answered, starting to walk again.

Roberto was quiet for a while then asked, “How will we get across the border?”

José shrugged and looked angry, “How should I know? Just be quiet.”

Roberto lay down and pulled a potato sack around him for a blanket. José stopped again and looked down the tracks. The train was slowing down. He ran to Roberto and shook him. “Roberto, wake up! The train is stopping.”

Roberto jumped up and grabbed his bag. “Police! Police!” The shout was passed from person to person along the train.

“Hurry, Roberto!” José grabbed his bag and ran to the edge of the train. In the dark, he could not see what was below him. He jumped, hit the ground and rolled on the gravel and sand.

Into America -- Part 1

Recently, I was asked to write some stories for English teaching curriculum. These are the stories I came up with -- just put here for those who are interested. The vocabulary is a little simpler than usual because of the intended audience. There are thirteen parts to the story.

The sun was very hot. José and Roberto lay in the shade of a mesquite tree watching the people walking back and forth in the country train station across the dirt road from them. The rails for the train ran only a few feet away. A long whistle called across the desert that the train was coming. José stood up and picked up his ragged backpack from the sand. “Come. It’s almost here.”

Roberto didn’t answer. He was asleep; his head on his arm. José kicked him, “Roberto, wake up. The train is almost here.”

Roberto yawned and rubbed his eyes. “Do we get on now?”

José shook his head, “No. We wait until it is leaves the station.”

Roberto sat up and felt around for his bag. He found it and tied the strap around his shoulders so it would not fall off when he ran. “What station is this?”

“El Ojito. It is not much farther to Juárez now, and then! Oh, Roberto, think of it! We will be almost in the North, in America!” José said.

The train whistled again and started slowly from the station. It picked up speed and went faster and faster. “Go!” José yelled and ran to the side of the tracks, Roberto right behind him. Reaching out his hand, José grabbed a handle on the side of the train and pulled himself onto it. Roberto ran along the side. His left hand was holding on to his necklace under his shirt. José reached to him. “Take my hand! Quick!”

Roberto reached up and José grabbed his hand and pulled him onto the train. “Next stop, Juárez.” José said with a smile. Roberto nodded, breathing hard from his run. José reached over and unwrapped Roberto’s fingers from the necklace. It was a small wooden cross. “It was Mama’s, you know.” José said, touching it lightly.

Roberto nodded.

“You don’t remember her, Roberto, but I do.” José said.

Roberto nodded again. “But, when I wear the necklace I think she has her arms around me. She keeps me safe.”

José laughed shortly, “You’ll need it for all this jumping on and off moving trains.”

Ulma-aeyo

“Ulma-aeyo? (How much is this?)” I ask, holding up a carrot.

“Ee Chun.” The old woman answers.

That is more expensive than the other venders’ prices, so I lay it back down and straighten up. This is Garak Market: a vast sprawling open air food market with vender after vender selling everything from apples to squid to barley to spinach. Each seller sits with their wares spread on the ground before them and hawks them loudly as trucks rumble by and the buyers straggle from one awning to the next. I take in the scene for an instant, but in my mind’s eye I am no longer in Seoul. The buildings grow poorer, the street turns to dirt, the chatter around me blurs into Spanish. In front of me I see a ragged boy with tousled, dark hair looking longingly at the fruit spread out on the sidewalk. “¿Tienes hambre? (Are you hungry?)” I ask him.

“Sí, Señorita.” He answers.

In my imagination, I turn to the vender and buy him something to eat. He smiles and thanks me for his new wealth. “Odiae-gayo?” The venders around me call the greeting in Korean, trying to get my attention. Once again the street is paved and the venders are oriental. The child has vanished.

“Martha, come on, let’s go.” Mommy tugs on my sleeve and we move on. “What were you thinking about?” She asks as we make our way past the grain section to the green veggies.

What was I thinking about? How can I explain that? “Nothing.” I answer.

I’ve always had a vivid imagination, maybe too vivid. I can really create a scene so real that I almost live in a different world sometimes. I feel as if I’ve really walked the streets of Chicago, wandered in the slums of India, lived in Morocco, visited Brazil, and (most recently) been to Colombia when in reality, I’ve only imagined it. Why these certain places? Street children. Los niños de las calles. Since I was a little girl of five or six I’ve dreamed of working with street kids. The country I’m thinking of has changed, the age of the children has shifted over the years, but the focus remains the same. For years I’ve imagined the city streets, thought up plans for starting farms for them to live on, organized feeding programs in my mind, and talked to imaginary children. “I’m going to start an orphanage” I remember telling people when I was five. “It’ll be nice orphanage with lots of games. I’ll teach them to read and all about the Bible.”

Now that I am almost ready to go out on my own, the dream has grown stronger than ever. The children of the street are calling to me. But here I am in Korea. Do I wish Korea had street kids? No of course not. But I know that somewhere there are orphans running the streets and they need someone to come and help them. How I wish I were there! Now, I bide my time and create dream scenes as I walk the streets of Seoul, but someday the dreams will be real. Someday I’ll get my hands into the work that God has raised me up for and called me to.

Crushed Oreos

The dirt pudding recipe called for a package of crushed Oreos. Esther took the package outside to the garage and grabbed the hammer. Our garage there in our off-base house in Tzuzu, Japan was a narrow concrete-floored area, covered with an awning and squeezed between our house and our neighbors’ (not the shoe-throwing neighbor, the one on the other side of us). Pouring the cookies into a bag, she started hammering away, thud, thud, thud. After a few blows, the bag ripped open and six cookies fell out onto the floor. Rats! She had wasted the cookies. Esther picked them up, tossed them into a cardboard box next to her and went on hammering.

The box needed to be thrown away anyway, so she planned to toss it into the trashcan after she finished making the dirt pudding. She closed the flaps of the box and put it on the steps of the back door. After she was inside and mixing whipped cream and chocolate pudding together, however, she promptly forgot all about it.

Our neighborhood got really dark at night. If you stepped into garage after sunset, it was as pitch dark as a stack of black cats. Micah threw open the back door, intending to just run out in his sock feet to get wire cutters from the work bench. As he stepped on the first step, he felt jaws close around his ankle and clamp tight. He kicked his foot, trying to get loose but the jaws held tight. Something was rattling around his foot inside the mouth of whatever it was. As his foot came down, it slid on the smooth concrete and almost sent him to the floor completely. Where was that light? He couldn’t see a thing. He kicked again and felt the stuff rattle, he lost his balance and fell against the work table. Calm, keep calm. Where was that light? He groped for the switch and finally found it.

He stared down at a battered cardboard box with the flaps holding it tight to his foot. He sat down and pulled it off. OREOS?? That was what had been rattling around his foot. What in the world was a cardboard box with six Oreos doing on the back steps? Quickly Micah stepped inside the back door. “ESTHER!! Are these yours?”

Esther came out of the living room, a little surprised at Micah’s angry tone. “Oh, yeah. Thanks. I guess I forgot it.”

“Forgot it? Don’t EVER put something like that on the steps!”

------------------------

Amendment from Micah: Esther didn’t really forget it. The younger kids were always putting whatever they couldn’t think of a place for into the garage. She didn’t want to bother getting her feet cold, so she just put it on the steps.

Answer to Micah from Esther: How could you know my motives? It was an accident, I tell you!

This Past Year

This past year has been the “Year of Kids” in my life. I spent a lot of hours at the local Boy’s and Girl’s club, settling arguments and trying to keep kids from killing each other with wild antics. I loved the kids. I enjoyed getting to know them and taking care of them.

But, this morning I got to thinking of how much time I spent hugging and rocking kids because their lives were coming apart. Here is a list of the situations I heard from all different kids (not all at the Boy’s and Girl’s club):

Her father lived in Jonesboro – or was it Jackson? – and she hasn’t seen him since she was two.

She didn’t really know her mother and now she was going to live with her for the first time since she was a baby.

His parents are both on drugs so he’s moved several states away to live his aunt – the only one in the family that would take him.

Her mother is on drugs.

She didn’t have a good relationship with her dad. Now she’s a teen and she’s going to spend the summer with him for the first time since she was in third grade.

His mother doesn’t work – but mom says he’s too much trouble to keep at home.

Their stepmom neglects them.

Her mother only feeds her one meal a day – if that.

His mother’s boyfriend just moved in and suddenly he has a new brother his own age whom he never knew before now.

She is the one raising her little sister when they stay with her mom.

She trying to run away because she wanted to get away from her foster home and go to her real mom.

His stepfather was arrested last night for drug dealing.

Her father shot her mother right in front of her.

He lives with his grandmother. His sisters (each with a different last name) are farmed out to other relatives in Texas.

Her father was just diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease.

His father is in prison.

Her father has a restraining order against him to keep him away from her.

She just tried this morning to call her father who she hasn’t seen in months. He told her never to call him again.

His stepfather died a month ago in a car wreck.

She stays with friends because her mother is an alcoholic.

I don’t know how many times I’ve held and rocked a child who can’t understand why her Dad isn’t home. It’s been more times than I’ve kissed a boo-boo this year. Why does our country not put any value on fatherhood? How can they not realize what it’s doing to their children? Just last Wednesday, I took a girl out of the Bible class because she kept crying. “What’s wrong?” I asked her.

“I want my dad. I haven’t seen him in weeks and my mom said I couldn’t call him. I love my dad, why can’t I see him?”

What do I say? I never was in her place. How can I tell her it’s going to be ok? They would be empty words. So I sit down in a rocking chair and rock her, crying with her. What do I say when her world is falling to pieces? I point her to Jesus. He knows. He can hold her together. That’s all I can give her – but it’s the best there is.

Forming Dreams (essay written for the U of A application)

“Either a nurse or a teacher” was always my answer when someone asked me what my plans were. That answer was fine until I entered my senior year and panic set in: “Mommy, I HAVE to know what I’m going to be, but how can I choose?”

I’ve loved anatomy ever since I can remember, but then I’ve always had a heart for working with children. Actually, I was on the job at the Drew County Boys and Girls Club when I got a call from my older brother, Peter: “Hey Martha, why don’t you come with me to an Urban Health Missions Conference in Los Angeles? Then you can see all the cool stuff you can do when you are a nurse like me.”

“How am I going to get out there?” I asked.

“I’ll pay your way.” He answered.

“Well, that sounds great to me!”

A few days later, when talking with my older sister Esther (also a nurse), I mentioned the travel plans. “Why don’t you stop by in Tulsa for a few days and shadow me at work? I can arrange it with my supervisor,” she suggested.

So a plan was formed for an amazing trip to discover nursing—from small-town Monticello, Arkansas to Tulsa to Los Angeles! I packed my bags in a flurry of excitement, impatiently waiting the three weeks until the travel dates rolled around.

For three days, I shadowed my sister in the ICU. I looked at chest tubes and saw blood transfusions in progress, examined heart monitors print-outs and x-rays of collapsed lungs, talked with confused old ladies and ultra-paranoid young men – and loved every minute of it!

Then the day came to fly from Tulsa to Los Angeles. Peter and I had tried hard to coordinate our arrival times, but I still had to wait an hour for him to arrive. Fortunately, everything went well (thanks to cell phones) and we were leaving in our rental car for our lodgings by nine p.m.

I live in Monticello, Arkansas—a small town of ten thousand people in the Arkansas delta. Exploring Los Angeles was an adventure from the start. “Hey Martha, look on the map and find somewhere to eat. I’m starved,” Peter ordered from the driver’s seat. The place I found was a Church’s Chicken in the middle of a downtown, rough neighborhood. “If we get mugged, it’s your fault.” Peter informed me as we looked at the bars on the windows and surrounding the cash register.

“Oh, thanks a lot!” I answered sarcastically.

The conference lasted for two days, but I would say that it was the conference together with the city that convinced me to be a nurse. I’ll never forget the experience of sitting through a session about healthcare for the homeless and then watching a ragged man panhandle outside of the Starbucks where we ate. Or listening to a lecture on gang youth and then wandering through the fringes of the tough barrios and seeing the graffiti.

That trip showed me the realities of life in the inner-city. When I told people at the conference that I wanted to be a nurse, but also wanted to work with children, the answer was “Why not both? Why not become nurse AND a Children’s Pastor? Both are desperately needed!”

So a plan formed to become a nurse to fulfill physical needs, and then go to Bible School to be better equipped to fulfill gaping spiritual needs. And that is my dream.

The White Flower

Night phone calls are rarely good news, and tonight was no exception. “Martha, you know the corner of Bushwick and Eighth?”

“Uh,” I tried to wake my mind into map gear, “Yeah.”

“The gangs have been fighting over it again. Esmeralda was walking home from the bus stop and – and she was hit by a stray bullet.”

I was suddenly wide awake, “What? Is she – is she dead?”

“Her heart stopped about an hour ago at the ER. They’ve already taken her to the funeral home. Her mom isn’t doing well, can you go see her?”

“Of course.”

I hung up and rolled over to look at the clock. It was three in the morning. I would have to wait for daylight to come before I could leave. In Bushwick, you don’t leave your house before the sun comes over the horizon unless you have armed bodyguards along.

I had taken Esmeralda on my Sunday School Bus Route a year ago. Every week on Saturdays she had waited, dancing with excitement, with three other kids for my ancient bus to groan around the corner and stop with the brakes screeching loud enough to be heard in Manhattan. She would jump aboard with a cheerful smile and “Hi Miss Martha!” and give me quick kiss before running to her seat near the back. Every Friday, I would climb the broken stairs to her tenement house on the fourth floor and visit her home and pray with her and her family. Now she was gone, leaving a grieving family and a hole in my heart.

The grey walls of the apartment building rose in front of me that morning, meeting the grey autumn sky ten stories above me. Graffiti of all shades covered the walls for about twenty feet, and then tapered off. I pushed open the swinging door and entered the dark hallway, the foul odor of urine making my nose smart. “SOLID” proclaimed the wall in front of me in stylized script— meaningless to the outsiders, to the residents it clearly proclaimed the presence of the Four Corner Hustler Gang. Over it, the picture of a bunny and the words “The Dark Side” showed the presence of the rival Gangster Two-Six. So those were the two who had been fighting, I thought as I picked my way over a shockingly thin man strung out on Meth. Nine flights up, I came to the fourth floor and knocked on the door to the right. It opened a crack and a frightened face peered out, then it swung wide and I saw Esmeralda’s mother. Her eyes were red-rimmed and empty. I stepped in and shut the door behind me. “I heard early this morning.”

The windows were grey with soot and the once-white walls were streaked with water stains. I took the woman in front of me into my arms as she burst into tears again. “It’s so senseless!” She wailed. “Where is God in this?”

A tear rolled down my cheek, “Talk to us, God.” I said softly. “What’s on your mind? Was this all in your plan?” My eye fell on a cup of dirt on the windowsill. A wilted flower hung limply over the side, trailing on the gray, chipped concrete.

Then, a picture rose in my mind of Esmeralda as I had seen her three weeks before. Sunlight struggled through the grimy windowpane and lightly touched her impish grin as she stood with her elbows leaning on the counter. The cup of dirt in her hands held a living plant then. “The seed package said the flowers would be red. Look, this bud is starting to open.”

“It looks to me like they’re going to be white. I wonder why.” I answered absently.

“Yeah, I asked God about that.”

This was getting interesting, “Yeah? Did he answer you?”

Esmeralda smiled and looked out the window thoughtfully. “Because, it’s the color of heaven. White – all clean, not like everything around here.”

I leaned down to look her in the eye, “Why did he change the flower to the color of heaven do you think?”

“Because,” She answered, her face brightening with another smile, “I’m going there soon. Ain’t always gonna live in the ghetto you know, it’s a whole lot better place there.” She set the flower in front of the glass where the light was brightest. The pure white showed up starkly against the grime of the dark world around it.