Bill had wandered to the finish line waiting on Sarah to finish the 5K race so Joey and I had time to talk alone as good friends do.
"I know you do," he answers very quickly.
As a survivor of religious abuse he can say any damn thing he wants on the matter ... but he's sincere wondering how I believe after living through so many ... dark things.Faith takes hold in the dark places is how Celtic Christianity puts it ... roots grow in the wet dirt and blooms above ground ... but you can't have a resurrection without a death.
I've seen lots of deaths.
The first I personally touched was Florence Bryson, an old mean ass, not-quite-homeless woman who wore several coats even in the summer and had a son named Elvis, who looked nothing like the King.
Elvis made money taking cigarette packages and elaborately folding them into picture frames he sold on the street.
Florence smoked all the cigarettes.
They lived together in a one room walk-up around the corner of the church I was inexplicably the 24 year old "Professional Christian" in charge of.
I didn't know anything, except we're all supposed to love each other ... and that's hard as Hell with so many unlovely people in the world ... like Florence and Elvis.
Florence would see me on the street, start cussing, throw cans at me, kick and punch ... all because I was the nice Christian guy ... like the ones who'd lied to her before.
Homeless guys seeing her attack me, rushed to my defense, pulling her away as she viciously bit them, always leaving her mark, before snarling, cussing and walking away.
Then one day she grabs me on the street, sobbing, pulling me towards their walk-up room where Elvis lay crumped on the floor.
Tears flood down Florence's leather face as I face a dead person for the first time.
Homeless men watch it unfold and fly into the room asking, "Rev! What is it?"
Florence buries her head in my chest, sobbing like I've never heard before.
After that, she was different as any Mother would be having lost her son.
"Hey Mr. Mike," she said in a little girl voice and we hugged.
She never allowed anyone to touch her before but now ... Florence taught me the power of hugs.
A few months later, on an early Sunday morning as I cooked breakfast for homeless people, I was summoned to the one room walk-up because something was wrong.
Storming the stairs three at a time, I found Florence laying on the bed, dressed in three overcoats and a skull cap on a hot summer day ... her feet still on the floor and both arms reaching towards Heaven.
Bursting into tears, I laid her head in my lap and asking God "Why?"
There's nothing just, right or Holy about a mentally ill, poverty stricken woman who'd lost her only begotten son ... dying alone in a rat infested one room walk-up on a hot summer day.
I remember God didn't have anything to say in response.
All these years later, I still haven't stopped asking.
And Florence was the first of many who taught me that love can happen anywhere ... in any circumstance ... and with the unlikeliest of people.
And if God is love ... well maybe that's the answer.
