Here, I dwell in the dirge of an entire generation. I look in the eyes of the young, carrying the caskets, foreshadows of the impending doom, on their backs – untapped by the joys and affirmations that life often brings – walking the exhausted path of those who have gone before them; a path trodden with broken hypodermic needles, stained with blood. Its moisture evaporates into the air in the form of poverty, miseducation, desperation, and feeble hope and is, in turn, inhaled by those marching. No one has told them they are still living. I stand in the midst of the procession wanting desperately to yell, scream, pull one of them aside and tell them that, if I could, I would hold Life and Love in my hands and tell them to taste it. But I cannot. My voice and the blatant message it carries are silenced by my own fear. I sit cross-legged in a pothole within a pit. Why can I not muster the energy to climb two inches out of this dent in the gray concrete? More importantly, why am I here? The answer to this question is obvious: deliverance. This is their unspoken prayer, the unuttered groan within their soul.
All is gray, not just the slabs of concrete – their clothes, the sky, every brick – nothing blooms. They live their lives burdened with failure, despair, and death, swaying and bopping to a rhythmic death march. I am a green figure veiled in the shadow of my ditch; therefore, I seem just as drab.
I am not the only one in this state. There are many of us. We are a dissociated rainbow. Most are comfortably disturbed in their covert existences — residing in caves, skulking in alleys, and passively observing through window panes. A baby pushes a stroller carrying the fruit of her womb. She stumbles over me, and the unforgiving ground breaks her fall. She cries, and I cry. The reasons for our tears are both numerous and confusing, yet very different. “Help me! Help me!”, she yells. The rainbow emerges from the shadows, if just momentarily, and calls relentlessly for help, banging on windows, yelling around even darker corners, “Somebody, help her! Help her!” We are the help.
We are messengers of the Light, couriers of the promise of Love and Life, Peace and Deliverance. But who will deliver us, save the Deliverer?
Join me in offering prayers and praises to the only One who can save from deception and hopelessness – the Mighty God, Maker of Heaven and Earth, Matchless King of Glory and Lord of Hosts –who rescues and delivers, shields, heals, and fights for us. We all need the light of His glorious presence where we are restored to and discover our original purpose in the fullness of joy. We were all created for the Creator. Let us wait expectantly to see and learn even more of our Lord and King as we participate in the lives of those we are assigned to in our communities.
—Anyah E. R. White
