24 "For this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found.’ And they began to celebrate."
Standing at the pulpit, fulfilling a promise to Darius’
younger brother, Dechaun, I looked over the vast audience in attendance of Darius’
funeral. Prior to reciting the spoken-word piece, I had very little interaction
with anyone fearing I would break down the dam I had built in anticipation of
performing in front of a crowd during this grieving moment.
As a social worker I’ve comforted people in moments leading
up to these. I’ve provided reassurance and steadfast empathy with accomplishing
a goal.
These are the moments where we need people to remind us of
who we are.
One of those few interactions was with an older cousin of
mine, Kim. I remember Kim as being mean, not mean or scary as Karen, but mean
enough. She looked at me before the funeral began, as the crowds were gathering
and said, “John-John, go get some chairs from downstairs.”
I had a flashback of the little boy wanting to retort with a
harsh rebuttal. I looked her squarely in the eyes and replied, “Okay.”
I went to go get the folding chairs from the basement and
brought them up four by four until they were no longer needed. I was sweating
by then. My black suit still pressed from the cleaners, but my neck was damp.
I stayed away from Kim after that.
In fact, for the remainder of the time until I was called up, I
had minimal interaction with family members, except for my great-grandfather
summoning me to the pulpit just before the beginning of the wake.
I had other still frames of memories flicker from being a
kid in that church. Some were good and others made me cringe. Each recollection
had cousins attached to them.
But still I kept my distance.
As the time grew near to take to the pulpit, I grew out of
earshot of the microphone. For the second time I had been summoned.
Mixed emotions rose near the banks of where my
emotional levees had been built. I questioned my ability for a second. I looked
to the left of me, and I saw reassurance staring back. I saw a sense of pride
that I’ve longed for when I thought that I had lost the right to be forgiven.
I saw my father.
While this moment may not seem like much to some. To me I
felt like a prodigal son, a play which my stepmother had reminded me of later
on, as we gathered things to leave.
During the repast, Kim approached me and said, “I’m sorry
for calling you John-John. You have grown so much and you resemble so much of
your father.”
“I don’t mind you calling me John-John,” I answered.
“I am my father’s son,” I thought to myself.
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