Let No One Walk Alone

     We've been reading about a lot of saints. The stories of Franciscans alone astonish me. It's not like I've been hiding in a cave. I was raised on stories of the saints, but... wow! I mean, where do they find these people?
     Then I start looking at myself, of course, and it's pretty clear that I'm not exactly saint material; I mean, I have some awefully ordinary struggles: holding my temper, being patient with school kids, trying to keep Arizona politics in some sort of perspective... The Book says Franciscans treat people gently, listen to all sides, look for the common ground. Then I go out in traffic and look for a short stop light just so I can cross late and, like, dare somebody to honk.
     But I want Jesus. I mean, I want him so bad I can hardly breathe. I have to pull my thoughts away to something else, fixing the lawn mower, struggling over the bank balance, figuring out my next move. And I tell you, at fifty-six years old I'm pretty tired of having to start over every morning just figuring this world out. I want it to change, for me, to be what they promise in the stories: the kingdom of justice, peace and joy. The land and the time ruled by love. I mean, I want it so bad I could just crack heads to speed it up.
     There was a teacher I worked with, Mrs. B. She was Kindergarten, lifetime, full career and then some. She was pretty nice, though I suppose I didn't pay much attention to her, you know? She was pretty old. One afternoon I was leaving school and I saw a bunch of kids crowded around a house across the street. There was a fire truck and police cars and I figured they were probably getting in somebody's way, so I walked over there to shoe them away.
     "What's going on?" I asked a kid.
     "They shot somebody."
     "Who, the cops?"
     "Nah. It was gang-bangers."

     At three a.m. teenagers came to that house and knocked on the door. The man who lived there opened the door and they shot him. It was an initiation. They stepped over his body and robbed his house. Quite a story.
     I ran back into the school and began telling everyone I met what had happened right across the street! I got good reactions. One teacher told me she was afraid to come to work anymore. So I kept telling people. Then I saw Mrs. B. coming down the corridor.
     "Did you hear what happened?" I asked. She hadn't, so I told her the whole gruesome story. She looked me straight in the eye.
     "That is why," she said, "I pray every day, 'Come Lord Jesus! Set this world straight!"

     Did I already tell this story? It feels like I did. But I'll never forget how she walked away leaving me rooted to the spot, convicted. I like to say that after a lifetime of practicing my faith, that was the moment I began my conversion. And though I'm complaining right now, I see an unbroken path from that moment to this one. I am as profoundly convicted here on this journey to becoming a follower of Saint Francis as anywhere along the way. And I'm equally dumbfounded to get a glimpse of how dumb I can be. Especially about God.
     What on earth can I ever offer to this community? It's small wonder that there are so many Franciscan saints. And "sainthood" isn't even the goal! It's about living the life, and people like Mrs. B. are examples of what happens when you do. Nothing makes sense the way it did. The world is not for us; it's the place, but not the destination. What we go after we become, with God's help. Saint Clare says it's a process that happens gradually over time, not all at once...
     Impatient men like me need that hope; that over time we can become like them, the real disciples who live it, not just talk about it. That's what's burning inside of me tonight on a hot Saturday after a summer I'm just about fed up with. I would chuck it all and run away, except that He is here, now, anchored to this spot.
     I'm not going anywhere without him.