Finding the Light
by Pamela J. Tinnin

            Just after the war in Iraq started, I saw a  special prayer service, a service held by the elders of the Hopi Indian Nation. A young woman of their people, a U.S. Marine, was missing in action. Her brother led the prayers and towards the end, his words went something like this: “Our prayers are being answered right now as we speak—as the light of our day fades, the light is appearing and shining on the face of my sister Laurie who is lost somewhere in the desert. We know that one day she will be returned to us.”

            I thought of the vision he spoke of—the first rays of sunlight appearing over the dunes, the light spreading across the sand, gleaming on metal, spreading shadows where rocks stand. I prayed that Laurie was indeed, along with the others missing in action, somehow safe in the desert, waiting to be found.

            It seems that since the beginnings of human history, people have sought the light; have fled the darkness. We’ve all seen pictures of early humans huddled around campfires. Electricity was hailed as a miracle and certainly it changed our lives when we were able to flip a switch and bring light no matter day or night.

            Light has also been used as a religious image. We often light candles for special services and in many traditions, to memorialize the dead. Christians call Jesus the “Light of the World,” the one who came to push back the darkness.

            I’ve seen those words many times, but I especially remember them from a neon lighted cross that stood on top of an old stucco building in a neighborhood in Portland, Oregon. It was the Burnside District, or more commonly, the bowery. That’s where the poorest of the poor lived, mostly on the streets, huddled in doorways or under the freeway overpasses. I have to admit, like most others, I called them “winos” or “bums”—men—and a few women—who sold their blood at the blood bank every week so they could buy a jug of the cheapest wine.

            In the summer of 1973, I spent a lot of time in the neighborhood. No, I hadn’t started selling my blood or drinking bad wine. On Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, I’d come down with some other folks with a pick-up loaded with boxes of bologna and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, apples or oranges, and a big jug of coffee. We’d park at the corner in front of the Gospel Mission. There’d be a crowd waiting, pushing and jostling to get to the front.

            Usually we had enough sandwiches to give each person one of each kind. I’d watch them and it always surprised me how this one guy named Booker would take his lunch, thank us, then sit nearby and spread it out carefully on a newspaper. Booker had lived on the streets a long time. He wasn’t crazy acting like some, but he was what we called “slow.” He’d eat half of one of the sandwiches, then half of the other, chewing slowly, drinking his coffee sip by sip. Then he’d half an apple or orange the same way, and wrap the other half in the empty sandwich wrapper. He’d put the leftovers in his pocket, then move off down the street. A lot of the guys saved one sandwich for later, but it was the way Booker did it so carefully that stayed in my mind.

            Then one Friday Booker wasn’t there. I shrugged it off—maybe like a lot of the street people we met, he’d moved on, perhaps hopped a freight to try his luck in another town. But as we were packing up to go, Booker came running up the street yelling, “Help…help—help me,” and turned, running back where he’d come from. We couldn’t make sense of his words, but Tom, one of the guys on our crew, started after him—I looked back at my friend Sarah who said, “I’ll stay with the truck.”

            By the time I caught up with them, Booker had led Tom into an alley. The buildings were so close, you could almost touch them on both sides. Booker ducked under a sheet of black plastic that hung from an awning. It was dark inside, but I could tell he’d been living there—there was an old mattress, stained and torn, blankets piled up, and a shelf made from a produce crate. Then the blankets moved and I saw that someone was lying there. She was old, her face wrinkled and worn, her hair thin and matted. The sound of her breathing filled the air, a rough gasping. When I touched her forehead, I knew she had a high fever.

            Tom ran back to call the ambulance, while I stayed there, trying to calm Booker, not really knowing what to say, so just patting his arm and saying SSh-Sssh. He kept saying over and over, “I been feedin’ her good—I been takin’ care a her good as can be.”

            When the ambulance arrived, one of the attendants took hold of the black plastic and pulled it down. Light rushed in and I could see how thin the old woman was, her bones sharp through her skin. Next to her was a shoebox with the name Elizabeth written in red crayon on the top. Booker picked it up and tried to give it to one of the ambulance guys, but they pushed him away. As they pushed the gurney down the alley to where the ambulance waited on the street, Booker shouted, “Lizbeth, I’ll keep your treasures…I promise.” He stood there waving until the sound of the siren faded away.

            We never saw the old woman again—perhaps Elizabeth wasn’t her real name. I called the hospital, but they had no record of her. Later I asked Booker why he hadn’t gone to the Mission for help. “I did,” he said, “but the preacher said I already had got my food for the week. I told him Lizbeth needed medicine, but he wouldn’t listen. Guess he figured I was tryin’ to cheat ’em.”

            I’m going to read the last part of our scripture in John from another translation. It goes like this: “This is the crisis we’re in: God-light streamed into the world, but men and women everywhere ran for the darkness.” Now, what I thought of first are the people who run to the darkness to do bad things—thieves, burglars, murderers, rapists—they operate in the dark because they don’t want to get caught or their deeds are too horrible for even them to look upon.

            But then I got to thinking about all the other dark places—the dark alleys and streets in our own United States where people like Booker and Lizbeth live; dark slums in farflung cities like Calcutta and Mexico City and Brazilia, where hundreds literally starve to death every week; the dark holds of ships where people hide to try and make it into the United States to escape the poverty and oppression in their own counntries. Those people aren’t doing anything evil—they’re just doing their best to get by, just like the rest of us.

            But why do they seek the dark places? Then I remember what Booker said to me after Elizabeth was taken away. I asked him why they had lived back in that hole—maybe the Gospel Mission wouldn’t take them in, but surely there were other places.

            “Oh, we tried…but sometimes I think most folks would just as soon folks like me ’d stay out of sight…keep to ourselves…hide away…if you don’t have to look at somethin’, you can forget about it…,” and he laughed and winked at me. I stood there wondering if Booker was as slow as we all thought, because you know, he was right—it is easier to forget about somebody if you never see them.

            With the Iraq war three years and counting, I keep hoping for the miracle of peace. When I was at the V.A. hospital the other day, I saw a bumper sticker that I want to get for my own car—it said, "Honor the dead; heal the wounded; end the war." It made me think of that young Hopi woman Laurie. Being a Navy brat, when I was young, I was around the military a lot, especially the Navy and Marines. The Marines have a tradition, “No one left behind.” Wherever Laurie and the others were, I know this—the Marines did whatever it took to find her and the others and bring them home. When she was found, Laurie’s body was brought home and returned to her people. She was buried in the old traditions with all the honor of a warrior.

            No one gets left behind… Let’s listen to our text again. “This is how much God loved the world: He gave his Son, his one and only Son. And this is why: so that no one need be destroyed; by believing in him, anyone can have a whole and lasting life. God didn’t go to all the trouble of sending his Son merely to point an accusing finger, telling the world how bad it was. He came to help, to put the world right again.”

            Jesus came here on a mission of mercy…and if we have said yes to him, if we have promised to follow him, we’re on his search and rescue team. It’s not enough to come here each Sunday—this is the place for basic training, for resupply. There are people out there, just outside the door, who have stumbled into the darkness and have lost their way, and no matter how different they may seem, they are our own. We’ve got to put aside our doubts and fears and move into unfamiliar territory. Whatever it takes, however long it takes, we’ve got to find the lost ones and bring them home; we’ve got to help put the world right again.

(Comments to Pam at pamelatinnin@EARTHLINK.NET )

Guerneville Community Church-UCC
Guerneville, California