I am drifting along, playfully goose-stepping against the tidal wave of khaki pants, worsted wool, cotton, flip flops and angst. Is that anxiety or exhaustion in the frowning faces? I want to ask questions. I move forward, looking into the defeated faces, angry faces. There are sleepy eyes, serial killer eyes looking around, looking at me.
On Connecticut Avenue today there are racing umbrellas. There are dogs on leashes, owners with hands wrapped in plastic. There are leather purses or canvas bags or folded newspapers pressed against a chest. There are smart phones and briefcases and coffee cups and bagels and pinstripes, umbrellas and brightly colored bold rubber rain boots, and the look of ill informed nineteenth century soldiers wearily beginning a last charge, with the damp fear of not returning. That is this morning. The bodies are animated like figures in an amusement park ride. Everything is planned, regimented, slightly creepy. There is a lack of preparation. This is a march of dread and resignation. Today each pedestrian seems lost, looking far away. Some are thinking of the Republican debate, some are thinking of this report, hopefully some are thinking of something higher, something better, hopefully some are preparing to serve the Lord.
Labor Day is now both a memory and a mystery. September is always a different beast. People no longer leave the city in well-organized platoons of shorts, suntanning lotion, brie, strawberries, and assorted bottles of alcohol. Labor Day announces the return of something and the end of something. The summer here is more associated with freedom, with the frontier spirit. And this is a frontier city in search of a state and voting rights in the United States Congress. Someone will wonder about the Ottawa jet accident, someone will wonder about Perry’s electability, someone worry about their feet getting wet. This is the city. People worry here.
The buses are crowded, the cabs disappear on rainy days. There is something in a few faces, something that is not adult. There are a few faces with smiles, with glances kind and gentle which say, “Be kind. Remember to pray.” But that is my interpretation, my conclusion. Others may see something else, may want to see something else. September always begins with a panic, begins with some sort of bang and people waiting for the repercussions, waiting for the next memo.
Since May there have been al types of upheaval all over the world, dictators have been chased out of power, people jailed and killed. Life this summer has been awkward, a tangle and tussle of ideas, ideology, politics, culture. The battle cry of this summer was freedom, equality. But it is easy to yell words and slogans in a crowd, harder to define the words, create governments built upon those words. These are the lessons and fears that arrive with this September rain. There is a conscious effort to be optimistic about these events but that takes an artistry and delicacy that few possess for the world is a dangerous place with all types of weapons waiting to slip undocumented into the wrong hands.
September is the month of the inadvertent conversation about everyday life, childhood, the tangle of reality and memory that each adult learns how to dance around with quick asides, self deprecating remarks, and sighs. I stood on a Connecticut Avenue corner, during the Month of Sighs. September is the month of sighs. The rain makes each passing vehicle howl and hiss as it speeds by.
I am aware of the hunger in the streets. Washington is one of those strange places where life continues, Labor Day is like any other constituent after the election, forgotten, ignored until there is a crisis. Everyone is filled with anxiety, angst, apathy. Washington alternates between goose stepping and lock stepping armies. Everything is urgent, everything is serious, everything has consequences. Some people talk of making money. Some people talk of saving lives. Some joke about making love, being saved. The smart phones beep. Conversation topics change. The character of the individuals remain the same.
The crosswalks are filled with the downcast expressions of burdened faces carrying the world’s aspirations, inspirations, realities, fears on silver platters, on borrowed silver platters from a well regarded caterer. The crosswalks are filled with faces in need of prayer, compassion.
Saying that strangers need prayer is not original, is not revolutionary. It is a simple fact. Things happen. There are facts visible and facts invisible to my gaze. There is sadness, loneliness, despair around. I am not always aware of the things but at times I am, sometimes I do pay attention. With all human beings there is an implicit connection, implicit interest usually fleeting, usually hopeful. We all share convergent, intersecting story lines. Life is not to be experienced alone. It is to be shared. Prayers silent and brief are always good, always necessary.
Life does not stop. Prayer can not stop. Goodness, kindness, holiness are always needed. September is simply one of twelve months with thirty days for each of us to share humility, charity, compassion, obedience. Allow God to be preeminent in your heart, in your life.
May we all have the courage and confidence to drift
along with God.
