+ Street Kids Poem by Bill Grace

Sometimes, alone in the chapel - a silence that rings
And an opportunity to remember them.

More than their weapons, once feared,
More than their ability to transform the common
into instruments of self-destruction,
More than those too wounded or too impoverished of vision
to give the drought of care and discipline their need bespoke,
More than all these, I remember their stories.

Marcus, up late one night, truant from bed, telling his legacy
of eight short years caring for a drunken, passed out father,
his terror infinite six light years later.
Tony, who took the robbery rap.
Paul, the greatest triumph of a love attempted and impossible
three years of street survival,
He knew the wonders of a dipsy dumpsteer that keeps the rain off
and might even provide a meal.
Jonathan threatened to jump from 11 stories,
But in truth only wanted the attention of half the county.

Antics - with fear behind - make a smile.
Still there is a certain grief that mingles with strange rage
That life should be so harsh on those who Christ embraced.
I would not idealize them - no, not even here for you, not even for them.
The experience taught too much of sin and deeper passions.

Jesus did not count the cost.
Do we dare to share with Him the fearful questions
and follow where they may lead?
To pray, to listen, and against everything to hope.