Gen 4:9 And the LORD said unto Cain, Where is Abel thy brother? And he said, I know not: Am I my brother's keeper?
Gen 4:10 And he said, What hast thou done? the voice of thy brother's blood crieth unto me from the ground.
I have a lot of first times that I can remember in my life. My first crush, my first kiss, the first book I read, my first communion, my first rejection, the first time I heard the Lord speak my name, there have been many first in my life.
I remember the first time I saw a man die. I was seven years old at the time living in Detroit in an old manor that was converted into a two family duplex. All the homes on the block were old dilapidated mansions. Some had the elderly tenants that lived there most of their lives, others like ours housed the out-cast large families that didn't just fall on bad times, but were born into it.
Our house was connected to a bar. The only thing that separated us from the bar was a rickety wooded walkway that rats used to run between in search of food. The rats were so bad that my mother used to sit food out for them every night hoping to stop them from coming into the house and nibbling on her children. It must have worked; I don't remember seeing any in the house.
The neighborhood was a rainbow of nationalities and cultures. There were black, white, Puerto Rican, native american and even a neighborhood witch whose house we would cross to other side of the street to avoid directly passing. We were all shapes, sizes and colors, but we had one thing in common, we all wore the dark gray tint of oppression. We were the ones that were unaccepted by a society that has no tolerance for the poor, uneducated, the weak, the old and the feeble. Mostly we accepted each other. It wasn't unusual for the families in the neighborhood to share a humble meal of beans and cornbread. However, I said MOSTLY!
It's something about an oppressed people that breed violence, hatred and corruption. Maybe pain, hunger and rejection need an outlet; a way to release your soul from the torment. It was several weeks after the 1967 Riot. The neighborhood had resigned itself into a smothering, burnout decaying cesspool of drugs and crime. As a child I wondered why hate would run so deep; why some people felt the need to exercise lordship over another. If we had a better job, higher education, riches, or lighter skin that made us somehow superior. Maybe it's the dirt part of us, that rat part of our brain where sin reside; that needs to feed the beast of pride, prejudice, lust, injustice and greed.
It started in the bar; a fight started inside and like most fights in the ghetto it worked it's way outside. I looked from a second floor bedroom window as the whole thing unfolded. There were several guys fighting, it was racially motivated, the White against the Latino. I watched in horror as knives, chains, bricks,and pool sticks tore flesh open and thick pools of blood poured through brown and white tissue. Each swing of the weapons seem to land on my heart and batter my young and tender soul. Great torrent of tears rolled down my face, but the most damage was done to my fragile heart.
I watched in shocked disbelief as one of the white guys with blood dripping from a wound in his scalp went inside a truck and pulled out a gun, one of the Latino men followed a few feet behind him. He saw the gun to late and with one quick motion and loud bang he lay in a pool of blood. Just like that the fight was over, all participants left the scene as quickly as they had arrived. All left were the brown skinned man lying in his blood, the sad eyed spectators, and the melancholy little girl in the window with the broken-heart. Hatred is like that, it grows and only death can satisfied it. It'll leaves a trail of tears and broken hearts.
I sit and wonder if like Abel the cry of his blood has reached the ears of the the Most High God, if we will every embrace each others unique differences instead of comparing it. How long will we close our eyes and sleep in our spiritual impoverished death beds? It's sad that some of the human race has lost it's identity as created in the the likeness and image of the Creator and live in the lesser being of the dust it was formed from. How many other little girls will have to experience tragic first times?
Fearless
Gen 4:10 And he said, What hast thou done? the voice of thy brother's blood crieth unto me from the ground.
I have a lot of first times that I can remember in my life. My first crush, my first kiss, the first book I read, my first communion, my first rejection, the first time I heard the Lord speak my name, there have been many first in my life.
I remember the first time I saw a man die. I was seven years old at the time living in Detroit in an old manor that was converted into a two family duplex. All the homes on the block were old dilapidated mansions. Some had the elderly tenants that lived there most of their lives, others like ours housed the out-cast large families that didn't just fall on bad times, but were born into it.
Our house was connected to a bar. The only thing that separated us from the bar was a rickety wooded walkway that rats used to run between in search of food. The rats were so bad that my mother used to sit food out for them every night hoping to stop them from coming into the house and nibbling on her children. It must have worked; I don't remember seeing any in the house.
The neighborhood was a rainbow of nationalities and cultures. There were black, white, Puerto Rican, native american and even a neighborhood witch whose house we would cross to other side of the street to avoid directly passing. We were all shapes, sizes and colors, but we had one thing in common, we all wore the dark gray tint of oppression. We were the ones that were unaccepted by a society that has no tolerance for the poor, uneducated, the weak, the old and the feeble. Mostly we accepted each other. It wasn't unusual for the families in the neighborhood to share a humble meal of beans and cornbread. However, I said MOSTLY!
It's something about an oppressed people that breed violence, hatred and corruption. Maybe pain, hunger and rejection need an outlet; a way to release your soul from the torment. It was several weeks after the 1967 Riot. The neighborhood had resigned itself into a smothering, burnout decaying cesspool of drugs and crime. As a child I wondered why hate would run so deep; why some people felt the need to exercise lordship over another. If we had a better job, higher education, riches, or lighter skin that made us somehow superior. Maybe it's the dirt part of us, that rat part of our brain where sin reside; that needs to feed the beast of pride, prejudice, lust, injustice and greed.
It started in the bar; a fight started inside and like most fights in the ghetto it worked it's way outside. I looked from a second floor bedroom window as the whole thing unfolded. There were several guys fighting, it was racially motivated, the White against the Latino. I watched in horror as knives, chains, bricks,and pool sticks tore flesh open and thick pools of blood poured through brown and white tissue. Each swing of the weapons seem to land on my heart and batter my young and tender soul. Great torrent of tears rolled down my face, but the most damage was done to my fragile heart.
I watched in shocked disbelief as one of the white guys with blood dripping from a wound in his scalp went inside a truck and pulled out a gun, one of the Latino men followed a few feet behind him. He saw the gun to late and with one quick motion and loud bang he lay in a pool of blood. Just like that the fight was over, all participants left the scene as quickly as they had arrived. All left were the brown skinned man lying in his blood, the sad eyed spectators, and the melancholy little girl in the window with the broken-heart. Hatred is like that, it grows and only death can satisfied it. It'll leaves a trail of tears and broken hearts.
I sit and wonder if like Abel the cry of his blood has reached the ears of the the Most High God, if we will every embrace each others unique differences instead of comparing it. How long will we close our eyes and sleep in our spiritual impoverished death beds? It's sad that some of the human race has lost it's identity as created in the the likeness and image of the Creator and live in the lesser being of the dust it was formed from. How many other little girls will have to experience tragic first times?
Fearless
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