This morning my roommate and I rushed out the door, late for school yet still hopeful to enjoy the early morning rays of sunshine that only those who leave for work before 7:00 A.M. get to enjoy. Our hopes of enjoying a peaceful late summer morning were shattered when a garbage truck barreled around the corner, splitting us onto opposite sides of the street, and leaving in its wake seriously one of the most rank smells I've ever encountered. As I took in the aroma, I cursed the city, realizing full well that such disturbances to the enjoyment of morning beauty don't happen where I come from.
But tonight, as the sun sets over the Big Easy and the city prepares to rest itself before another day begins, the unnatural sounds of screeching brakes, accelerating engines, and police car sirens subside long enough to hear the gently trickling waves of water caused by 20-some feet in a backyard pool in the Garden District of New Orleans.
Young men and women discourse on who they are; rather, who God's been in their lives. Some I've known since I moved here; some I've known just a short time. Collectively they comprise my closest friends in this city. Despite the closeness I've shared with some, I'm still surprised by experiences my friends have had, the struggles they have faced, the journeys they have traveled. For spending so much time together, I realize I know so little of the hearts we tend to keep so hidden. But on this Tuesday night, we share, a little more than we have before, each story revealing there's more beyond the brazen exterior, each resilient wayfarer echoing, "I'm not so strong. I'm not so perfect. I'm fragile."
And I'm overwhelmed by feelings of gratitute and endearment, and I'm confident it's true that loving is a matter of knowing and being known.
