Communion of Saints

11/7

Sunny crisp fall day. Marathon Sunday. No way for our eastside folks to get across on this day. I remember my own five new York City marathons. How getting five boroughs under your feet makes you feel like the city is yours. It’s been a few years. I look forward to having the time and space in my life to do it again.

And today is the day we celebrate our saints. All who came before. What they left us. And today we start our senior survey. It’s a project of Manhattan Together, our IAF faith-based community organization. We’ll use the results to develop our citywide agenda. First time I ever filled out a senior survey with my name on it. P_____'s being evicted. Have to deal with that. She asks me what’s salvation. I tell her she’s a child of God, with the presence of the Holy Spirit, one of Christ’s own. “But am I saved?” she says. “Yes,” I say. She’s got a secret, she tells me. The Holy Spirit shows her what’s going to happen before it does. Even with her demons--and angels.--she’s able to make it. But If she loses the apartment....

Inside the church, I look around. Remember all those I’ve known here who are gone. Marietta, Eric, Carmen, Dorothy, Adham, Arthur, Keith, Almena, Irene, Samir...I see their faces, where they sat, who they were. I look up at the shepherd window, remember how during the AIDS crisis so many died here, how one man restored and rededicated the window for his lover Steven, seeing him held in Jesus’ arms. The two pastors who preceded me, dying with broken hearts each in their own way. The portrait of the Rev. Dr. Mc Alpin, slashed with a knife. I agreed to its removal, wondering about his restless spirit. I feel their presence. All these saints.

Outside, there’s food containers. Remains of tomato and lettuce. Someone had a meal here. I wonder if someone brings the food and leaves it. I set up an outdoor altar with bread and wine (well, concord grape juice) and a Bible.

A woman traffic officer asks if she can use our restroom. I tell her the water’s off. We’re trying to get it back on. Soon, I say, soon.

Later, I’m finishing up. No one else around. Ready to leave. And there’s Tracy. He asks if he can have a blanket. Says it was freezing cold last night. Said he had a metro card and rode the buses awhile. Then tried to sleep. Someone called 911. He went to Lennox Hill Hospital.

I tell him I’ll look. Go back inside. Get him an old blanket. And an aluminum thermal wrap, like they give to the marathon finishers. “Look,” I say, “You deserve better. But this is all I got.” “It’s enough,” he says. “You don’t need to be on the steps,” I say. I look in my bag, offer him some bread. “Nah, this apple’s enough,” he says. Then I know what to do.

I go to the convenience store. Buy a cold bottle of grape juice and two coffees with cream and sugar. I return. “Tracy, “ I say, “will you do me a favor?” “Sure,” he says. “what’s that?” “Sit awhile on the steps,” I say.

So we go to the front, the steps. Sit in front of the gates. “I know you were a preacher,” I say, “will you share the Lord’s supper with me?” “I will,” he says.

I recite from the days’ gospel,

“Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God. “Blessed are you who are hungry now, for you will be filled. “Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh. “Blessed are you when people hate you, and when they exclude you, revile you, and defame you on account of the Son of Man.”

He punctuates my words with “yes, yes...”

And I say the blessing for the bread, pass him a piece of pita. Then the wine, pass him the chalice with the cold grape juice. His hand shakes as he drinks deep. Then I drink too. “That’s good,” he says. I pray for his safety, protection. And then we recite the Lord’s prayer together. “I haven’t prayed the Father’s prayer in a long time,” he says.

Then I pull out the coffee. “Here you go,” I say. “With cream and sugar”

“How’d you know?”

“You told me one time.”

And we talk. “ I had a good life,” hesays, “a god position. I neber saw that ending.” We talk. Of Los Angles where he lived for 18 years. From age 23 a foreman at Occidental Petroleum and a Pentecostal preacher. Married a Mexican woman. Built his own house. Raised four boys. Then the plant went to Costa Rica. His wife left. Came across country to see his first grandchild in the Bronx. Knocked on the door. No one there. One thing leads to another. Five years later...

By my math I figure he’s a little south of 50.

As we talk, i see runners, marathon finishers, walking up the street, wrapped in aluminum like baked potatoes. Some

heading to Popovers, one riding in the back of a pedicab.

“Look, I gotta get a half pint of vodka,” he says. “I’m shakin’ too much.”

I ask if he’d ever done rehab, or detox. Tells me he was sober for eight and a half months. Living in a program. AA meetings daily. Then his worker left. The new guy “didn’t know” him. “It’s irritability did it,” he says, “i got irritable. Blew it all. I’m kickin’ myself.” Says he’d like to go back to Los Angeles. His wife’s mom would take him in. Or his in laws. “I raised those kids” he says. I ask where his own are. “Ohio, Indiana, I don’t know...”

Tells me he loves this city. And hates it. And it gets cold.

“Say,” he says, “ I could do some work here. Put some men together, help out..” “We’re working on that,” I say. I tell him I need to go. “Thank you for sharing the Lord’s supper with me,” I say, “you’re part of my family of faith.”

“I’m honored,” he says, “Proud. Well, you’re not supposed to be proud about religion. But I’m proud.” We shake hands. I head up Amsterdam. The sun is so bright, it almost hurts the eyes.

The Sun Has Come Out

11/5

Cold, gray, raw, wet November day as I head to the church. I’m a little late for an important meeting in my office. I see the group gathered under the scaffolding: church members, supporters and some from The Friends of West-Park and Landmarks West!, those who led the landmarks fight against us.

But the first person who I talk to is Tracy. “Pastor,” he says, “Look at the mess they made” and he points to deli plates, plastic food containers and remains spread all over the steps. I had wanted to come here early enough to sweep, but here we were. ‘Look, Tracy,” I say, “I’ve got an important meeting happening inside, I’ve got to get the doors open. Can you help me out?” “Sure thing,” he says.

So as Tracy begins to clean up, I go inside and open up the big Amsterdam doors and invite everyone in. There’s too many to fit in my office, so we go to the back of the sanctuary. Using pews and chairs, we make a circle. Introductions all around.

Kate Wood of Landmarks West! speaks up and says they’ve met and want to make a proposal. I brace myself. A bit anxious. They want to sign an agreement committing to raise $100,000 to do the repairs necessary to get us back in the church. I’m waiting for conditions, a demand to control what happens inside, that kind of thing. The only condition, that we promise to keep a church there and not contest landmarking. Fact is, whether they knew it or not, the minute my congregation voted not to sell, to remain and attempt to rebuild here, they voted to give up the fight against landmarking. It is a fight I agree to in principle, but not one for which I would give up our life. Not even for the “greater cause of justice,” as some put it. We would literally have had to give up our life to wage that battle. That did not feel like a call to me.

I responded by sharing our vision of a “centre for spiritual and social transformation.” Ted shares our strategy of incremental growth and reclamation. Mim speaks of my vision of a “community of communities.” Elders Marsha and Hugo speak of our passion to remain in ministry in this neighborhood. To move forward, not continue to fight the battles of the past.

There are looks of amazement all around at the team I brought with me. “Frankly, you’re a lot further along than we ever expected,” someone says. We share our plans with the Columbia Preservation Alumni, the coming Crafts Fair, etc. There is this sense of shock that we are on the same page.

Tracy walks in. “Is this a Bible study?” he asks “Not exactly,” Marsha says. I go with him to the narthex. Explain to him that it’s a meeting to get the doors open again. Get moving again. “I built three churches in California....it was the alcohol...and the fuckin’ wife.” He realizes what he said, looks up at me. “Oh,sorry ‘bout that.” “Don’t worry about it,” I say. “Let me wrap things up and we can talk some more.”

I go back to the meeting We agree to meet again in a week. With a proposal in writing. And our working papers about the center.

I’m thinking about that long landmarks fight. How this church’s repeated votes to stay here, despite good advice and long odds was also a vote to see context as calling, not circumstance. This is a more complicated issue but all my training and experience in community ministry told me that we should have engaged the community at the front end of this process, not after we already had a plan and a demolition permit in hand. Even if that community included people of means, even wealth. While I understand the history of community nimby opposition to the Michalski AIDS Residence we helped to sponsor, the supportive housing sro’s and our historic stand against forced landmarking, the decision to be a community based, not issue or ideologically based church demanded engagement, not unilateral action. I should not have doubted what I knew. Engagement brings the possibility of conversion. Unilateral action forces a win/lose dialectic. The struggle of being a church with open doors, countercultural and yet engaged with our community, it’s not easy.

We go up the street to Popover’s for coffee and a basket of mini-popovers. To celebrate a small victory. Mim asks for a prayer of Thanksgiving. Hugo speaks of how the congregation’s morale should be lifted. Ted talks about how the public will be drawn to this story of the underdog, “the little engine, no, church that could.” That refused to give up. I remembered that this is what Amanda said on her first visit to the church over a year ago. When it sounded like a romantic, unrealistic idea. When no one else could see it.

Someone mentions how shocked people were that the first person I spoke to was Tracy. How we worked together. Ted is thinking how to hire him during the crafts fair. I spoke about presence. Being there. I say to the table, “For quite a few years, I have felt buried alive. I feel like I’m coming out of the tomb.” Mim smiles and says, “It’s called transformation.” And I think for a moment that it’s not too late to be who I was supposed to be, called to be, here.

I need to go back and sweep up. Tracy’s sitting on the stairs. Weaving a bit. A bottle in his pocket. “Tracy,” I say, “How do you like your coffee?” “Cream and sugar,” he says. I go and get two coffees. When I come back, he looks more distant. He looks at me. “I don’t know you, “ he says. “Yes you do,” I say, “I’m the Pastor. We’ve been working together today.” “Do me a favor,” he says. “What’s that?” I say. “Shake my hand,” he says and extends his hand. And we shake. I tell him I’m going in to get my stuff and will be back.

When I’m back to the steps, he’s slumped over. Asleep. I’m not clear what to do. Wake him up? Should I forbid him to drink here? To sleep here?Thirty-five years in urban ministry and I’m still not sure.

So I sweep. A little round Latina woman comes up. “Do they still worship here?” she asks. I stop for a second. ‘Yes,” I say. “I used to come here. When my kids was little. To the Spanish service. When we moved to 94th, we stopped. Is there still a Spanish service?”

“No, we’re all together now.”

“So who’s the Pastor now?”

“I am.”

“And you’re sweeping?”

“Sure. Why not? I get to have good conversations with people like you.”

She laughs and gets on the 7 heading north.

I go back in. Lock up. Tracy still asleep. I decide to call Goddard-Riverside Reachout. Sean knows him well. Promises to come by later, check him out. Offer services. All right then.

Back on the street, Erna is checking out the church. She was a long time member. Our Treasurer. She’d left years ago for our Methodist neighbor. If I had to guess, craziness and chaos did it. I tell her what’s going on. “I saw the doors open,” she said. “I couldn’t believe it.” “It’s a long road,” I said. “There’s my bus,” she says. And gets on the 11.

Walking up the street. The sun has come out.

Street Preacher

11/3

As I head to the church this morning, I’m feeling unsettled. Maybe it’s yesterday’s election. Maybe it’s the enormity of what lies ahead of me. Maybe it’s the tears of my ministry colleague, kicked out by her church after eleven years, no more health care. No severance. (My Lutheran colleague says that they require and guarantee one month per year of service.) And forced to beg for her vacation pay. With no real help from the Committee on Ministry or Presbytery. Feel like our connectional system has failed. That there are basic justice issues here. It’s depressing.

As I get to the 86th Street door, there’s a woman in the doorway talking aggressively on a cell phone. Everything about her screams “real estate agent.” And that she is. Wants to know if the church is for sale. “No,” I say. “Can’t we just talk a minute?” she says. I should say “no,” but I don’t. I take her in. To my office. We sit down. She pulls out a news article about landmarking from January. “There’s a lot more recent than that,” I say. And I tell her our story. Our refusal to sell. To merge. To leave. Our desire, our passion, to come back in. She smiles, does her best smiling, friendly affect. Still wants to see the building. Tell her I’ve got no time for that. “Not even a three minute walk through?” I sigh. I’m easy. I give her a quick walk through.

I’m always annoyed when someone who wants to buy our church tells me how beautiful it is. For the first time in a long time, I feel that sickness, that stomach ache as I walk through. The sense of loss.

We go back to my office. I ask her about her client. She says to ask her a question, “So is it a religious organization?” I ask. “Yes,” she says. “They’re growing, need more room.” She asks about price. Says her article says $25million. Would that do it?” she asks. I tell her about our short window of opportunity. Tell her to check back later. We’re not for sale.

I open the Amsterdam Avenue doors to let her out. Out on the steps, I feel a chill run through me. There are scattered November leaves on the steps. I remove all the bright Mexican fabrics, the multi-colored cut papers. Time to put them away. The skull has been taken. Only two candies remain. There’s a dirty blanket. A small bag of food.

As I sweep, I hear a voice. “Hello pastor.” I look up. I say, “Tracy! It’s good to see you! I’ve been worried about you. Didn’t know where you were. It’s good to see you.” It is good to see him. Red haired, Maybe my age or younger. I appreciate his Kentucky accent. ( A place I’m not particularly fond of but nonetheless part of my life.) He slept on these steps for awhile. Haven’t seen him in weeks.

“I’ve been in a place down on the Bowery,” he says. “ But I got to leave. Can’t afford the $250 a month. I walked all the way up here for a free cup of coffee. And to bum a cigarette.” (I noticed this morning they’re now up to $12.95 a pack.) “See the guy at that coffee cart over there? He takes care of me.”

We talk about his situation. Welfare’s supposed to pay his rent. “I know why they won’t,” he says. “I miss my appointments. But how am I supposed to get there when I don’t have a metro card?” He’s sober. And a sadness in his eyes.

A casual but well dressed older man walks up. Introduces himself. Asks about the church. He’s a retired architect. “That’s great, you have time,” I say. And I tell him our story. What we want to do. What we need. He sees my “Theses.” Asks if i know what that is. “Yes,” I say. “I put it there.” I take it down and give it to him. “Read this on the bus,” I say. “I know another architect near here,” he says, “let’s see what we can do.” I write down my name, number, e-mail. And he heads for the 11 bus.

Tracy’s still there. “Pastor,” he says, “let me ask you a question. I see you out here every day. I see...look you must be a man of faith, right?” he looks away. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.” “No tell me,” I say. “ I mean how do you keep it? How do you keep it? I was....I did...Look, I was an ordained pastor, ok?” A shock runs through me. “What denomination?” I ask. “Pentecostal,” he says. “Los Angeles, California. Mainly blacks and Mexicans. I speak fluent Spanish. And Italian. I...” He looks away.

“It’s not easy, “ I start. “Do you want to talk some more?” I want to invite him inside. “No, no. Thanks,” he says. “I’ll be moving on.” “Look,” I say, “I’m here every day. He smiles. Stubs out his cigarette and heads up the street.

I look after him. Remember the day Amanda and I asked him to move so that we could enter the church. It was Amanda who was able to break through and get his name. Later, after our meeting, I said to him, “Tracy, take care, ok?” About half way down the street, he called to me. “Pastor.” I turned and came back. His eyes were filled with tears. “Thank you. You saw me. Acknowledged me. Called me by name. To most folks, I’m invisible. Thank you for seeing me.”

I try to imagine the story that leads from a Pentecostal church in Los Angeles to the steps an empty church on the Upper Westside of New York City. He told me that on our steps he’d had beer bottles thrown at him. And I remember when he was beaten with a baseball bat. The thin lines between Tracy, my colleague, myself.

I finish sweeping. Close and lock the doors, the gate.

All Souls Day

11/2 All Souls’ Day/ Election Day

Sunny cold morning. First morning under 40’. Steps pretty quiet today. I see the candy has been taken. The skull is still there. Tomorrow I’ll take it all down. And one pastry is left in a box from Lalo, an upscale cafe in the neighborhood. (For those who might remember Sleepless in Seattle.) So I will open the doors and work in y office, heat or no heat. Let that begin. Today is election day. A big one. We’ll see what happens. Got to get some signage, find a way to et people know we’re open an that I’m here. We’re here.

Ah, someone is coming in the door. Two women. They have seen Holly’s ofrenda and want to see what’s going on. I go to greet them. One woman speaks hesitantly. “We are not from here.” ‘Where are you from?” I ask. “Argentina” she says. “Bienvenidos a Nueva York, a nuestra iglesia.” I say.

“ Que manera de iglesia es?” she asks. ‘Evangelical,protestante, “ I say. “Ah” she says. They smile and start off. “Buenos dias,” I say, “Tenga un buen visito a nuestra ciudad.”

Time to vote.

On the Steps

On the Steps

10/18

It was Amanda's idea. She said, "You have to sweep your steps." The first day we went together. While sweeping, an elderly African-American woman approaches. “so,” she says “you been landmarked. When is the work going to begin?” I explain that it doesn’t work that way. That no money comes with that. That we want to get back in. “So what can I do?” she asks. “Well, want to sweep? Or you can contact our city council member, Gale Brewer. Ask when the money comes.”

Our Deacon James Clifford approaches. A retired army vet who lives nearby. Hugs are exchanged. He talks about how he comes by every day to check things out. Except for his recent hospitalization. Clean up a bit. Last summer he spent a couple of days trying to restore an office for me inside the church. “We can do this together,” I say.

I pick up the cup filled with urine and take it to the garbage can. An older black man walks by. Sees what I’m doing. “That’s disgraceful, “ he says. “I was homeless once myself. Always took care of the place I was. Respected it. Kept it clean. These homeless these days. Just don’t know what’s wrong with them.” He shakes his head. Walks off.

10/19

I arrive at the steps and find a Mexican man whose age is hard to determine. He is still drunk. Cans of Cobra 40 around. I ask him his name. “Ricardo,” he replies. “Me voy limpiar las escaleras,” I say. “Me ayuda?” He declines my invitation to help. I notice trails of urine and sputum on the steps. Not sure what to do about that. Another Mexican man with a shopping cart filled with tin cans approaches. An animated discussion begins. Yet another Mexican man, better dressed and not appearing homeless, approaches and begins speaking authoritatively to the other two. My Spanish checks out and I can’t follow. They begin to leave. Ricardo unzips, wavering, and begins to relieve himself against the church. “Hermano,” I say, “Por favor...no se puede urinar en la iglesia..este es una iglesia, mi hermano..” He looks at me blankly and the three take off.

10/20

It’s a relatively quiet day. No signs of any activity. Has James Clifford been here and swept already? But as I sweep I notice, more red mud. That’s what started all this in the first place. Red mud. That’s how we discovered the outside of our building was washing away. It still is.

10/21

Cold, damp morning. Open doors from inside, find George sitting there, blocking the steps. George is a large African-American man with thick glasses. Wrapped in layers of robes and jackets and ponchos, with his bicycle rear view mirror attached to his hat, and his walking stick, he has the appearance of a desert character from one on the post-apocalyptic Mad Max movies. He lived on our steps a long time. We have a long history. He is diagnosed as a “highly intelligent schizophrenic.” At a community clergy meeting with the Department of Homelessness, George was proudly claimed as a success story. They had found him exactly the apartment exactly where he wanted it. And he was happily living there. Well, now he’s back. Clearly having spent the night.

I said, “Good morning,George. Excuse me, I’m going to sweep the steps.” He gathered his cardboard and other items and moved away as I tried to explain that we’d be doing this every morning. That we wanted to use the church again. I swept the steps. Removed the empty Cobra 40 can. I still don’t know what to do with human waste...spit, vomit, worse. But being here every day, I’ll have to figure it out.

As I finish, George is coming back. I ask about the overstuffed shopping cart near the steps. It’s not his, he tells me. Said the other guy left. I asked him to help keep an eye on things.

Another older lean African-American man with a white beard approaches. Staring at the church, lips moving. “Good morning,” I say. “Shhh...”he says, I’m talkin to the church. God bless the church” I tell him it’s my church. “So bless me, “ he says. So I do.

Walking back up Amsterdam Avenue, I call Project Reachout. “George is back,” I say.

10/22

Sunny mild day. I like to enter the church from the 86th street door so that when I get to the front door and open it up, what I find there will be a surprise. Today I find Ricardo and George on the steps. I wonder if he’s left his apartment or if this is just a visit to the comfort of the steps. I have two brooms. Offer one to Ricardo, asks if he wants to help. He shakes his head, gathers up his SUV shopping cart and takes off up Amsterdam. George has already left the steps and moved to the corner. Someone has left a large pile of clothes on the steps. I go over to George, asks if he wants the clothes. He scowls. “Who? What’s wrong?” I say, “the clothes, do you want them?” He scowls again. “No. Why would I want to do that? They’re small. I can’t wear small. I am not small.” I continue the clean up. Sweep up every scrap of paper, food, cigarette butts. Toss today’s lone Cobra 40 can. At least no human waste today. Wonder if my being here affects that. I think how I grew up in a tall steeple church. Spent my first ten years in the (then) largest downtown church in the US. Five associate pastors. Think about what pastors did and never did. I look at the beat up broom and dust pan. My downstairs neighbor Judy passes by on her way to work at Dorot, an outreach program for people who are elderly, Jewish and poor. We exchange good mornings. My fantasy is that some one will join me. Bring new brooms. We’ll see.

I go back to George. “You have a good day, ok?” He nods. No scowl this time.

10/23/10

I call Deacon James Clifford. He will take care of the steps while I am gone.

10/24/10

This morning I am on an early morning run in barrio in Managua. I smile at hearing the sounds of roosters in the city again. And then I see what I had forgotten. What I’ve seen in third world cities in Mexico, Nicaragua, Palestine. First thing in the morning, all over the world, poor women going out on the sidewalks, the streets, in front of their houses. With brooms. Refusing to be defeated by money, circumstance, garbage or power. Claiming their own power in their own space. Sweeping.

10/27

Today at 6 am in Managua I saw men sweeping the sidewalks...

10/31

Back from Nicaragua. A sunny and cool Halloween morning. The steps show signs of people having slept there. Folded up cardboard behind the gates. An old blanket and a sweater. I gather these things up and head for the trash can. Then I stop and think. Is it right to throw away the blanket? So I start to fold it up neatly and place it beside the steps. But then I think of the bedbug plague we’re going through. And other possibilities. So I place the blanket and sweater beside the can, not in it.

As I’m sweeping, Katherine approaches. She hadn’t been aware of where we’d be worshipping. Hadn’t seen my various ways of trying to communicate while I was gone. She will call others who might not know.

Then Holly comes. Begins decorating the outside of the church with Mexican paper cut outs and big colorful flowers her daughter Abie has made. And she’s building a Dia de los Muertos display on the steps. Amy and Juan arrive and begin setting up the electric piano and sound system. One by one, two by two the West-Park folk begin to arrive. Some in costumes.

I put on my white alb and green stole. Gather the folks on the steps. Holly takes salt and pours it around our circle and up the stairs, protecting our space. Talk about Martin Luther, 433 years ago. Why he picked this day. Explained about the 95 Theses. Then I pulled out my “15 Theses” and read them aloud:

FIFTEEN THESES

10/31/10

1. The church is the community of God’s children acting together as the Body of the Risen Christ
2. The church is the people of God, not the building
3. The building has been given to the church for the extension of mission and ministry
4. We are called to witness where we are...this corner in this neighborhood: this means engaging our neighbors
5. The church is not for sale
6. The building is not for sale
7. Our souls are not for sale
8. We left our building voluntarily as a step towards rebuilding and renewing
9. Bureaucrats and zealouts kept us out
10. We return here because we choose to
11. We will reclaim, renew and restore this building as we reclaim, renew and restore our mission, our ministry, our witness...and ourselves.
12. Our obedience is first and foremost to the God who created us
13. God has already given us all that is necessary to do the mission God has called us to
14. Neither government nor church council (Presbytery) can take that mission and ministry from us against our will
15. We invite any and all who would be partners to join us now.

We are West-Park.

Here we stand. We can do no other.

And I took out a hammer and nailed these to the church door....

We sang “A Mighty Fortress..” in English and Spanish and went inside into our narthex and the back of the sanctuary where Holly had built an ofrenda for El Dia de los Muertos with fruits, chocolates, photos of old confirmation classes, coins and a bottle of wine. After the service, all will share..

Philip goes and buys candy. We set up a table and sit to greet those walking up the street, lots of trick and treaters. Lots of parents. Lots of questions about the church. Wish I had flyers. And press. Take some folks in and show them around. Over and over again people ask “when does the work begin?” So any don’t realize that landmarking only gets you landmarked with no money to do the work. Over and over again I patiently explain.

One older man passes by and stops. “Pastor Brashear,” he says, “I see you honor the pagan as well as the Christian..” “It’s the eve of All Hallows,” I say, “All Saints.” He smiles and wishes us well.

We pass out candy and raisins. Talk to people. Wish them a Happy Halloween. We’ve been gone for three years. Will take awhile to convince folks we’re back.

We leave an ofrenda, a candle and candies on the steps as we leave.

11/1 All Saints Day

Sunny cool day. Not quite 50. Interesting to look at our altar. The candle’s gone. But most everything else still there. The skull, three chocolates,even the small cup of wine. (That is a surprise.) I start to take down the flowers and the rest of the display. Then I think, no, today is All Saints Day, tomorrow All Souls. I decide to keep it up through these days. And I add a flower or two to the gate where I had taken down a paper cut silhouette. When I see passersby stop and check out our doors, intrigued looks on their faces, I know this is right.

Someone has left a garbage bag of clothes on the steps. I open it and look in. All dirty, used up. This is not charity. At least they didn’t gift wrap anything. I take it to the trash barrell.

Once I ran a community ministry. We insisted gifts not be wrapped so that people could have a choice of what they wanted. One church member got bery angry. “Why is it so important for you to wrap this up?” I asked. “Because if they saw what it was, they might not want it, “ was the angry reply.

Los santos vivan....