Thabiti Anyabwile
I’m still moved by the story “Tara” told. A beautiful young woman full of an infectious bouncing joy that helps her glide rather than walk. Normally beaming with a face-wide smile, she was, for Tara, sedate. The story began optimistically. She relayed to us a conversation she had with a student the previous Friday afternoon. It was the first open conversation she’d been able to have with this student, who had taken her class before but hadn’t often shown up. This semester had been different. He made some effort, took interest in the subject, and began to build relationships.
The two of them sat working on a project together. As their hands molded materials and fashioned art, their words flowed effortlessly. He began to talk about his philosophy of life: “Live fast, die young.” Or was it “die hard.” Patiently, Tara asked why he took that view. As they talked, she began to hold out the hope of the gospel. For the first time, he seemed genuinely interested. In fact, he seemed hopeful. So Tara invited him to church with her the following Sunday.
Saturday evening she called to arrange time to pick him up. As she told the story, her face dimmed from its usual glow. If a light gray cloud could fill a face, I suppose that’s what it looked like. She explained that when she called to arrange for her student to come to church with her that Sunday, his mother informed her that he wouldn’t be going. Between Friday afternoon and Saturday night, the young man’s father had been gunned down in a barber shop. The family was distraught.
We sat stunned at the turn of events. And we prayed as a congregation for the student, his family, and Tara.
Several days later, I drove friends around the neighborhood, showing them the historical sites, giving them other landmarks so they might know their way around. I mentioned that one turn was near the barber shop where the student’s father was killed. My passenger said, “No. That’s a different shooting at a different barber shop.” We chuckled uncomfortably, aware of the absurdity.
Sunday night my mother called. She’d called a couple times which signals one of two things. Either I’ve been a bad son and I’ve not called recently enough, or something has happened back home that I should know about. I was guessing “bad son” because, to my shame, I hadn’t called in some time. I’ve come to recognize certain moods in my mom’s voice. Sunday night her voice carried that sound… the one where she tries to sound upbeat but she’s speaking to clearly and directly for it not to be serious. When I hear that voice I know the bad news isn’t long in coming.
Sure enough, she finished the pleasantries and said, “It’s bad news.” She continued, “Do you know Raunchy, the police officer? That’s your cousin, you know.” I vaguely remembered and confessed it’d been some years since I’d heard the name. “Well,” she said, “do you remember his son? Lil’ Ronnie?” I confessed that Raunchy’s son was an even fainter memory than that of his father. Undaunted, she asked, “Do you remember Marvin?”
Now she had a name I recognized. Marvin was one of my best friends from middle and high school. I can’t remember when I first met him, but we were friends from that instant. As a new kid to the neighborhood he became known for a little “Eddie Munster” peak growing down the middle of his forehead. We teased him, but it didn’t bother him one bit.
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SOURCE: The Gospel Coalition
Thabiti Anyabwile
