Tuesday, May 23, 2006 at 12:12am
Standing at the drain - catching people
Round eyes, soft and wide. Lanky bodies, not quite developed. Heads bowed somewhat, evoking a sort of humble relationship with their surroundings. Gloriously expressing all the beauty and grandeur of youth. The caption beneath this picture reads: "Child Fighters."
The image of children brandishing guns and bombs, chanting virulent phrases (they don't quite understand) and menacing neighborhoods, here, there and everywhere, is incomprehensible. Yet this picture of two handsome African boys in a recent Christian Science Monitor article, refugees from Darfur, kidnapped and forced to fight in Sudan's escalating conflict, looking nothing like child fighters, reminded me of my little brother Josh and the time when I started praying for children.
Josh (not his real name) wasn't a child fighter, but he was someone whose harsh life experiences threatened to destroy his innate sense of purity. Something I later learned to be impossible.
I met Josh in Manhattan's West Village. He was a teenager and I was in my mid-20s, embarking on a dream to be an entertainer. We worked in a hip little restaurant where I waited tables. He manned the takeout counter and made deliveries.
After finding out that I had a special place in my heart for heavy metal music, Josh asked if I'd accompany him to Metallica's Damage Incorporated Tour. We had a blast.
On our way home I discovered that Josh's parents had both passed away. At 14 years of age, he lived in his own apartment next door to his grandmother. The two of them were barely making ends meet.
Josh was a bright, energetic young man with a great sense of humor, who loved to read. As grown up as his life appeared to be, he desperately needed someone he could talk to. I enjoyed being around him and did my best to be a thoughtful big brother.
We had been buddying around for a few years when I had an opportunity to travel overseas. Upon my return, I relocated to the South for a few years before returning to New York City. Josh and I had corresponded with each other intermittently, but when I returned, friends told me it would be a good idea to stay away from him. His grandmother had passed away and he had started living on the streets. Josh had become a heroin addict, a junkie and a thief. I was warned I wouldn't recognize him and that I shouldn't give him my home or work address or phone number.
Hearing this news broke my heart. I couldn't help but feel responsible. I had let him down.
Walking in the East Village with some friends a year or so later, we passed by a very young man asking for change. Instantly I recognized him. It was Josh.
I'm unable to describe the anguish I felt, seeing someone with so much promise, someone I loved, on the streets, homeless, dirty, covered with scabs and sores, begging. As I walked, trying to make sense of it all, listening for what I should do or how I should think, something in me said, "Go back."
I left my friends and doubled back to the corner where Josh had been standing and called out to him. He looked at me and smiled. In that moment I wasn't impressed by his physical condition or our surroundings. It was his smile that got me. In it I could see him, — his joy, his intelligence, his love. I realized right then that Josh's identity was perfectly intact.
We sat on the curb and talked for hours. Our reunion wasn't ladled with guilt, pity, judgment or blame — just love. That love was God informing us of who we really are.
Two weeks later I received a call from Josh, telling me that he had met a wonderful girl. She too had been living on the streets but decided it was time for her to go home to her family. She asked if Josh wanted to go with her.
That Christmas Josh's girlfriend called to thank me for being his friend. She told me that his whole life turned around the day he met me on that street corner. She kept saying, "You changed his life." Actually, what changed Josh's life was divine Love. He glimpsed the purity, love and intelligence he reflects as the image and likeness of God. This renewed view of himself, of who he is, changed him.
This experience taught me that nothing could take away or infringe upon our identity as a child of God. Maintaining our spiritual poise, we bless this child by recognizing his innate purity and goodness.
I continued receiving progress reports from Josh before leaving New York City a few years ago. He moved to upstate New York, found meaningful work and maintained his own apartment. For me, the greatest report is his renewed belief in himself and life.
— — —
Kwadjo Boaitey is a writer who lives in Stone Mountain, Ga., with his wife, the lovely Karama. He is a lifelong Christian Scientist who is devoted to uplifting public thought. You can send him an email at {email kwadjosun@gmail.com}kwadjosun@gmail.com{/email}. © copyright 2006 by Kwadjo Boaitey
— — —
UPI Religion & Spirituality Forum is a big tent for all expressions
of faith and spirituality, neither excluding nor favoring any.
All opinions expressed belong to the writer alone, and are
not necessarily shared by UPI Religion & Spirituality Forum.
The image of children brandishing guns and bombs, chanting virulent phrases (they don't quite understand) and menacing neighborhoods, here, there and everywhere, is incomprehensible. Yet this picture of two handsome African boys in a recent Christian Science Monitor article, refugees from Darfur, kidnapped and forced to fight in Sudan's escalating conflict, looking nothing like child fighters, reminded me of my little brother Josh and the time when I started praying for children.
Josh (not his real name) wasn't a child fighter, but he was someone whose harsh life experiences threatened to destroy his innate sense of purity. Something I later learned to be impossible.
I met Josh in Manhattan's West Village. He was a teenager and I was in my mid-20s, embarking on a dream to be an entertainer. We worked in a hip little restaurant where I waited tables. He manned the takeout counter and made deliveries.
After finding out that I had a special place in my heart for heavy metal music, Josh asked if I'd accompany him to Metallica's Damage Incorporated Tour. We had a blast.
On our way home I discovered that Josh's parents had both passed away. At 14 years of age, he lived in his own apartment next door to his grandmother. The two of them were barely making ends meet.
Josh was a bright, energetic young man with a great sense of humor, who loved to read. As grown up as his life appeared to be, he desperately needed someone he could talk to. I enjoyed being around him and did my best to be a thoughtful big brother.
We had been buddying around for a few years when I had an opportunity to travel overseas. Upon my return, I relocated to the South for a few years before returning to New York City. Josh and I had corresponded with each other intermittently, but when I returned, friends told me it would be a good idea to stay away from him. His grandmother had passed away and he had started living on the streets. Josh had become a heroin addict, a junkie and a thief. I was warned I wouldn't recognize him and that I shouldn't give him my home or work address or phone number.
Hearing this news broke my heart. I couldn't help but feel responsible. I had let him down.
Walking in the East Village with some friends a year or so later, we passed by a very young man asking for change. Instantly I recognized him. It was Josh.
I'm unable to describe the anguish I felt, seeing someone with so much promise, someone I loved, on the streets, homeless, dirty, covered with scabs and sores, begging. As I walked, trying to make sense of it all, listening for what I should do or how I should think, something in me said, "Go back."
I left my friends and doubled back to the corner where Josh had been standing and called out to him. He looked at me and smiled. In that moment I wasn't impressed by his physical condition or our surroundings. It was his smile that got me. In it I could see him, — his joy, his intelligence, his love. I realized right then that Josh's identity was perfectly intact.
We sat on the curb and talked for hours. Our reunion wasn't ladled with guilt, pity, judgment or blame — just love. That love was God informing us of who we really are.
Two weeks later I received a call from Josh, telling me that he had met a wonderful girl. She too had been living on the streets but decided it was time for her to go home to her family. She asked if Josh wanted to go with her.
That Christmas Josh's girlfriend called to thank me for being his friend. She told me that his whole life turned around the day he met me on that street corner. She kept saying, "You changed his life." Actually, what changed Josh's life was divine Love. He glimpsed the purity, love and intelligence he reflects as the image and likeness of God. This renewed view of himself, of who he is, changed him.
This experience taught me that nothing could take away or infringe upon our identity as a child of God. Maintaining our spiritual poise, we bless this child by recognizing his innate purity and goodness.
I continued receiving progress reports from Josh before leaving New York City a few years ago. He moved to upstate New York, found meaningful work and maintained his own apartment. For me, the greatest report is his renewed belief in himself and life.
— — —
Kwadjo Boaitey is a writer who lives in Stone Mountain, Ga., with his wife, the lovely Karama. He is a lifelong Christian Scientist who is devoted to uplifting public thought. You can send him an email at {email kwadjosun@gmail.com}kwadjosun@gmail.com{/email}. © copyright 2006 by Kwadjo Boaitey
UPI Religion & Spirituality Forum is a big tent for all expressions
of faith and spirituality, neither excluding nor favoring any.
All opinions expressed belong to the writer alone, and are
not necessarily shared by UPI Religion & Spirituality Forum.