At the time of this writing, I’m in the waiting room at the Kent County Jail. I’m sitting on the floor in the corner of a concrete room, next to an empty vending machine. I’m waiting for my friend, Brad… soon to be released after I post his bond. I first met Brad a few years ago, on the streets of Grand Rapids, while he was on the run toward an addiction that would almost take his life. The last time I saw him, he had needles in his arm, under a bridge on Division Avenue.
But today, I’m picking him up upon his release… and I’m bringing him directly to the Forge Recovery Center where he will spend the next nine months rebuilding his life. I’m here, sitting on the floor in the corner, surrounded by cold concrete in December, because I love this guy.
I’m also here, because I do not suffer from short term memory loss. After much introspection, EMDR Therapy, and trusted counsel - I’ve returned to the source of my own self-inflicted trauma. The buzz of doors, brown jackets, cold concrete, and … all of this triggers my worst scar tissues to reopen.
I do not suffer from short-term memory loss. I remember it all so well, and the shame that sets in like a polar vortex to be chased away by the solace of the electric blanket of God’s grace. Inhaling grace, exhaling gratitude. For three hours, I wait for Brad’s release. While I wait, I reflect on the friends who have stood in the furnace with me over the years, and the evidence of the scandalous mercy of which I have been a recipient. And now, I’ve dedicated the rest of my life to the redistribution of the same radical hospitality and scandalous mercy…
These days, I spend my hours with the least of these. I’m forever hunting the outcasts and the banished, the excommunicated and the ecclesiastically homeless. I find solidarity with the refugees sleeping outside, under bridges to evade the downpour. I walk the streets looking for Alex and Timmy and Rick and I’ll never forget Happy and the suicide note he left. My heart is permanently scarred from the needles and bullets and the bottles and the application at Pine Rest Mental Hospital: “Are you feeling hopeless or helpless?”
Hope is my favorite word.
I’ve done my own research on the validity of ancient testimonies… (I suggest you do the same). The human hurricane
who suffered and died, inexplicably reappeared to incalculable eyewitness who gave public testimony to their experience. I’ve chosen to invest every inch of my story in the continuation of this revolutionary message of… hope. The tomb is empty. Hope. The future has already been restored. Hope. Jesus killed death. Hope. Love will write the epitaph of my story.
Love will have the last word. Your story isn’t finished. Love will paint a portrait of your failures and triumphs; a mosaic of art to be interpreted through the lens of a great cloud of witnesses. Love is the invitation, the rising action, the climax, the falling action, and the resolution. Love, only love.
- Jay DePoy
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