Fear and Trembling

          Today I went to the reading hour at my community center in Pension Town.  I went to reading hour not knowing what to expect, but excited to see what the center was about and meet some folks who might be interested in volunteering in the garden. 

            Over enormous blueberry Costco muffins and bottles of ice water, I sat with four other women, the only white lady among them, and read Little Black Girl Lost #4, an account of a farmer’s daughter captured from Nigeria by Dutch slave traders.  As I am reading this book with these women, all of whom are older than me, I notice how many of them struggle with the reading.  Listening to them read aloud is similar to listening to my former eighth grade students read aloud; they help each other, but frequently stumble over complicated words. 

            As I am reading this book with these women, I also notice how much violence is present.  Of course, we are reading about the conditions on a slave ship en-route to Europe from Africa, but in only twenty pages, we are privy to the grisly details of a beating, a shooting, and three shark attacks.   One of the victims of these incidents is a child.  We stop at this point to reflect on how witnessing violence impacts children, and how children deal with witnessing violence, as well as living with the threat of violence on a daily basis.  We are not talking about the book anymore.

           

            I live in one of the deadliest cities in the United States.  There have been four murders in my neighborhood already this year, including the September 2^nd death of an 11-year old girl.  She was shot in a drive by while sleeping in her home less than two blocks from the garden where I work.  Two years ago, there was a drive by shooting at the school where my garden is located, in the middle of the day!  No less than eight gang members just got arrested at the corner store with the excellent fried chicken that sits across the street from my garden.  In June, an Americorps volunteer was shot to death while walking on one of the cross streets that borders my garden.

            I listen to these women reflect on how these events shape this neighborhood that is my home.  I listen to them and I think, “What am I doing here?”  I am a little white girl lost in a land where the privilege of my skin color, education, and class separate me from those I’m called to serve every day.  I don’t have stories about getting pregnant at 17 and then watching the same thing happen to my daughter.  I don’t have stories about watching my son witness a murder and then turn to drugs, before eventually getting the help he needed through a social worker.  All I have is a donated tomato plant, and a donated trowel, and what frequently feels like a donated sense of courage. 

            I believe that, with God’s help, I can be safe in my garden, and that showing up and humming to my plants on a sweaty patch of asphalt can serve as a witness to the idea that if God can sustain my trust and my courage in the face of so much fear, maybe He can start doing it for more of the folks around me.  And maybe, that will make the world a slightly better place for all of us.