“First they came for the Communists,
and I didn’t speak up,
because I wasn’t a Communist.
Then they came for the Jews,
and I didn’t speak up,
because I wasn’t a Jew.
Then they came for the Catholics,
and I didn’t speak up,
because I was a Protestant.
Then they came for me,
and by that time there was no one
left to speak up for me.”


by Rev. Martin Niemoller, 1945

It was the perfect day. The skies were blue and there was a cool breeze. My friends and I were in Boston for a few days and we decided to walk through the Holocaust memorial. This was my second time through it and it impacted me just a deeply. I prefer to walk through it alone. This wasn’t our first activity we had been walking around a lot before making this stop. Our feelings about Boston were mixed. It is a beautiful city, but it seems like there is an underlying arrogance from some of the locals. Not only arrogance, but a bitterness. We felt out of place. It seemed as though you had to be a local to be part of what felt like was an elite group. Just before we arrived at the memorial we were walking around with our map trying to find it. As we were walking two women asked us what we were looking for. We told them we were looking for Fannuiel Hall. They said that we were very close and pointed us in the right direction. They also told us what areas of town to avoid after dark; they were a credible source because they worked for the D.A.’s office. It was one of the few congenial interactions we had while visiting Boston. I don’t think they had lived in Boston for their entire lives, but I would consider them locals if nothing other than to give them a boost for redemption. I hope that I can love people that I don’t know even if it is in a simple way. You never know when that person needs a gentle reminder to refresh their hope in humanity. This quote from Rev. Niemoller is a great reminder of what happens when we don’t take ever opportunity to help and love those around us. How do I get involved with things that don’t effect me directly? I must speak for those who don’t have a voice or aren’t given the platform they need. I want to plead the case of the forgotten.

I am sitting on the mountain looking down into the trees that are waiting for their time to bloom. Spring is piercing through the walls of winter. All is bringing hope to fruition. What will the new life look like? Will it represent the years past or will it be unrecognizably different? The buds are forming their blooming potential.

This unraveling and reknitting may take some time. The process continues to jaunt its way through my heart and mind. Should I expose myself to this emotional torture, or will it give me the freedom that the prisoners in Plato’s cave were in need of. I think that both what is tangible and intangible will reveal truths and progress will be made.

What does it mean when someone is willing to give back or reach out to their neighbor only after they are comfortable having the things they need and want? Is that selfish ambition or an honorable gesture? After all at least they aren’t hoarding all their money, and there are things they could have if they weren’t giving money away. What am I sacrificing to help others? What am I doing for those around me to make my community a better place to live? The feeling of wanting to love people and use the life and time I am given to effect change and in the most beneficial way possible is one that I share with many others. This weekend I had conversations with three different people who all felt persuaded in one way or another to be pioneers of change in whatever way they could in hopes of making this a better world. I can’t help but wonder what the point of making the world a better place to live in for future generations is if we aren’t connected to a source outside of ourselves. Is God inside of every human being because he created them? Is it just that not everyone has recognized him or connected to that source. I believe that there is some good to be found in everyone.

Hunger has no color. It only has a name. The name isn’t the same, but rather it is unique to every individual who struggles to survive the ugly grip of this hunger. Hunger is beckoned by the needs of the physical, mental and spiritual and can include any combination of the three. The color is never what gives it meaning but its name is what sets it apart.

Color is something that only the eye can see. Hunger can be seen and unseen. It can be recognized or unrecognized. It can be given attention or ignored. It is up to those that come in contact with the hunger, or become aware of its presence, to help. It is up to the rest to seek out the void and bring it to the attention of those who are able to assist in taking care of its most basic need-love. No matter what name hunger has, the biggest step to finding the cure is to show that hunger love.

Love can be very hard to give and equally as hard to receive. It is constantly being stretched. Every second is a new battle that love must make the choice whether or not to fight, and what weapon to use, and whether or not to back down when the odds are stacked against it. Love can grow like a flower and produce something beautiful or it can grow like a weed and be distorted into a masqueraded replica of what the roots were intended to produce. The weeds became distracted and transformed to be something that can be used to harm things around it. Something in its structure made the end product completely different from the beautiful flower that came from the same root system.