more to say but won’t. His mouth sets firm in a grim line.
“It’s OK to be angry about that. That’s not the way things are supposed to be.”
The boy spits back. “Yeah, well what is?”
I grant a nod of understanding. “There are many things that aren’t right; this world is topsy-turvy most of the time. But that’s where you find the beginning of an answer. Why do you think it makes you mad that things aren’t right?”
The boy shrugs, kicking at the same floorboard that sits higher than the rest.
“We all have a sense of justice built into us. Some of us skew it or don’t pay it much mind, but it’s there. We all have some sense of right and wrong. Why do you think that is?”
Another shrug.
“That’s alright. Most folks answer that way. The important thing is to recognize it in yourself—that’s a start. The cry for justice is an old one, but a lot of people don’t always succeed in their attempt to set things right.”
The boy looks up at me from under cautious eyelids. “I suppose I’ve tried to make things right in my own mind.”
“And what did you find?”
“I think I’ve pretty well made a mess of things.”
We reflect on that for a moment before I continue. “There’s a small voice in the heart of everyone. If you don’t listen for it, you’ll never hear it. It’s underneath your feelings, deep down past the clutter in your head. This voice—it’s not a compass so much as a nudge. It’s a prod to awaken and renew your mind.”
The boy sulks, mouth downturned. “I’m not that good at learning stuff.”
I shake my head. “You already know it, you’re just not aware of it. And if you pursue that voice far enough, you’ll come to see that a big part of justice is taking responsibility for your own actions.”
Words flow through me without effort; nagging bruises find themselves muffled by a second wind. I’m motivated only by the chance I see before me. The boy, unsettled and searching, sits with as much attentiveness as I might ever get from someone his age. I have to make it count; I have to see him on to a better path. Remember who you are .
“So you’re saying I should turn myself in?” The boy inserts a defensive edge into his voice.
“Setting things right starts with your desire to come clean with God and your fellow man.”
“I don’t know if I can do that.” The boy looks away again.
I fear I’m losing him, but I can’t sugar-coat my words. “What then? Will you keep running? You keep running and I promise you whatever you’re running from will continue to chase you.”
The boy shakes his head in confusion. “I never wanted to hurt anybody, I mean, not for real, anyway.”
I want to believe him. I want to believe I can help him turn around while he still can. Like the man said, I might be the only part of hope this town sees. Remember who you are . “Most people don’t set out to hurt anyone, but the burden of consequence far outweighs your intentions—even if they’re good.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Again with the defensiveness.
I turn and lean back; exhaustion seeping into my limbs. Speaking with my head rested on the back of the pew, I admit that I don’t know. “Sometimes it’s not about feeling better. Sometimes it’s just about doing the right thing.”
We sit in silence for several minutes. An occasional warble of winter air shakes the old structure. Then without a word, the boy shuffles out of the pew and moves down the dusty aisle.
I listen to his plodding feet, hear the thud of the door, and fall into quiet prayer. I hope that I’ve planted a seed of promise. I may not be the one to water it and see it come to fruition, but someone else might. He may bear lasting fruits someday.
And I am eternally grateful that the Lord doesn’t give up on old dogs like me.
Plowed
February 27 th , 2002 8:11 PM
Johnny Rollins walking into downtown
The ache in my feet throbs with each step, and there’s
“It’s OK to be angry about that. That’s not the way things are supposed to be.”
The boy spits back. “Yeah, well what is?”
I grant a nod of understanding. “There are many things that aren’t right; this world is topsy-turvy most of the time. But that’s where you find the beginning of an answer. Why do you think it makes you mad that things aren’t right?”
The boy shrugs, kicking at the same floorboard that sits higher than the rest.
“We all have a sense of justice built into us. Some of us skew it or don’t pay it much mind, but it’s there. We all have some sense of right and wrong. Why do you think that is?”
Another shrug.
“That’s alright. Most folks answer that way. The important thing is to recognize it in yourself—that’s a start. The cry for justice is an old one, but a lot of people don’t always succeed in their attempt to set things right.”
The boy looks up at me from under cautious eyelids. “I suppose I’ve tried to make things right in my own mind.”
“And what did you find?”
“I think I’ve pretty well made a mess of things.”
We reflect on that for a moment before I continue. “There’s a small voice in the heart of everyone. If you don’t listen for it, you’ll never hear it. It’s underneath your feelings, deep down past the clutter in your head. This voice—it’s not a compass so much as a nudge. It’s a prod to awaken and renew your mind.”
The boy sulks, mouth downturned. “I’m not that good at learning stuff.”
I shake my head. “You already know it, you’re just not aware of it. And if you pursue that voice far enough, you’ll come to see that a big part of justice is taking responsibility for your own actions.”
Words flow through me without effort; nagging bruises find themselves muffled by a second wind. I’m motivated only by the chance I see before me. The boy, unsettled and searching, sits with as much attentiveness as I might ever get from someone his age. I have to make it count; I have to see him on to a better path. Remember who you are .
“So you’re saying I should turn myself in?” The boy inserts a defensive edge into his voice.
“Setting things right starts with your desire to come clean with God and your fellow man.”
“I don’t know if I can do that.” The boy looks away again.
I fear I’m losing him, but I can’t sugar-coat my words. “What then? Will you keep running? You keep running and I promise you whatever you’re running from will continue to chase you.”
The boy shakes his head in confusion. “I never wanted to hurt anybody, I mean, not for real, anyway.”
I want to believe him. I want to believe I can help him turn around while he still can. Like the man said, I might be the only part of hope this town sees. Remember who you are . “Most people don’t set out to hurt anyone, but the burden of consequence far outweighs your intentions—even if they’re good.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Again with the defensiveness.
I turn and lean back; exhaustion seeping into my limbs. Speaking with my head rested on the back of the pew, I admit that I don’t know. “Sometimes it’s not about feeling better. Sometimes it’s just about doing the right thing.”
We sit in silence for several minutes. An occasional warble of winter air shakes the old structure. Then without a word, the boy shuffles out of the pew and moves down the dusty aisle.
I listen to his plodding feet, hear the thud of the door, and fall into quiet prayer. I hope that I’ve planted a seed of promise. I may not be the one to water it and see it come to fruition, but someone else might. He may bear lasting fruits someday.
And I am eternally grateful that the Lord doesn’t give up on old dogs like me.
Plowed
February 27 th , 2002 8:11 PM
Johnny Rollins walking into downtown
The ache in my feet throbs with each step, and there’s
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