by
Bart Campolo
Red Letter Christians
It is Sunday night, and I am suddenly awake at the crack of too-close gunfire. I creep to the window without turning on the light, more curious than afraid until I remember I don’t know if my daughter Miranda and her friends are home from their movie. Looking out, I see three men spread out in the backyard we share with Ric and Karen, one moving slowly past the patio furniture where we had Sabina’s 7th birthday party that afternoon, the other two crouched by the trampoline my son Roman and his football buddies slept out on last week. Strangers in our space, clearly visible in the moonlight, probably carrying guns.
~ ~ ~
Those lousy ghetto bastards — my exact words at 2 a.m. — brought their ignorant violence into our yard on purpose. They weren’t running away from anything. They had a plan. They brought an audience. I don’t know their names, of course, but I know them just the same, because once they get that careless, they are all the same. Before I can stop myself, I hope aloud that they drive themselves off a bridge before they make any more babies. Across the room, Marty wonders aloud what happened to the kind and hopeful man who brought her to this place four years ago, in the name of Love. Finally, we turn on the light and call Miranda. Until she gets home, there is no use trying to sleep.
~ ~ ~
And suddenly, just as suddenly as those gunshots awakened me, I too don’t want to end up simply having visited this world, or even this neighborhood. I don’t want to end up angry or bitter. No, I want to believe in my heart that each life, and each name, and each body is indeed something precious, both to God and to me. I want to remarry amazement.
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