They Call Him King David

It has become somewhat of a normality to hear the name of King David called out repeatedly during my day. Not in use during any bible study, sermon, biblical reference, or any other place you would expect that name to be uttered. Rather I hear it repeatedly as I work, toil, and sweat; as I mop the floor and scrub the stairs. I hear it as I do the kind of work I’m sure David never did during his kingship. I hear this name called out, not in reference to the classic tales of old nor in reference to my self, but rather it is directed to the man who forever stands at my side through out the day; a short, youthful, saleon bobo with skin dark as a panther’s majestic coat. His clothes do well to mirror his body, tattered and dirty. He looks nothing like what you would call king.  He spends his day keeping me company, sweating, and toiling just the same. They see him as he is on his knees doing the most humble of work and they call him king. Not quite what you would expect, but let me tell you before you make your judgments on the matter. Although he spends his day face to the floor, his is undoubtedly David, king, a man after gods own heart, and it is my distinct honor to work beside him.           

              (Saleon bobo: krio for Sierra Leonean boy/man)

The Dismal Science

There is a small poster, framed and pristine, that sits in our cafeteria. It is engraved with a simple truth that this ships wishes to remind us. “For every person we help, there are hundreds more who wait.” I’ve pasted this message a hundred with no more a thought to it than the ground I walk on. It seems that it’s not until you are with it face to face that you realize. I’ll simply say that it is a strange thing to wish and pray for a tumor, and a heartbreaking tragedy to have it be a goiter. No, it’s not until you see the broken and beaten face of this truth that you think about it, but when you realize, it hits you like a freight train. We read of our Jesus healing all those he came to touch, with unlimited power, our god the infinite. Yet this is not our reality. The sad truth is that a fact about our state of being is that we are finite, limited. No matter how vast and infinite our universe may be, it is quite limited to us, and there is simply not enough to go around. So being finite, limited, with only so much to give, we find our selves under the laws and rules of economics. We must use what we have to help the most we can. In the end we are called to help the ones we can and to let go the ones we cannot. Knowing this fact does not make it easier though. How are you suppose to tell someone so broken and beaten that we cannot help them; that we have no cure for the misfortunes of their life? How do you tell someone “you are going to die”?   

And She Breathes

            It is a peculiar thing, this ship. After some time aboard it you begin to realize it is far more than mere metal and wood, more than just a thing. You realize it breaths, and it become a she. She does far more than that too, deep from within the under birth of her bowel, with in the dungeon I call home, she grumbles and moans. From the grumbles that are found with in her bosom she gives us life, and more so a home, and while at times she can be a bit of a temperamental bitch, she is still ours and we love her. Yes this ship lives and we, we are merely apart of her life, no more no less. I know this for with in the quiet hours of the night, with in the solitude and silence of the darkness with in your mind, you can feel her presence. And the more time you spend with in the confines of her body the more you get to know her, the more you see that she is a beautiful thing.