our hearts should do this more
I sit in the streets with the homeless
My clothes stained with the wine
From the vineyards the saints tend.
Light has painted all acts
The same color
So I sit around and laugh all day
With my friends.
At night if I feel a divine loneliness
I tear the doors off Love's mansion
And wrestle God onto the floor.
He becomes so pleased with Hafiz
And says,
'Our hearts should do this more.'
-Hafiz of Shiraz (1320 - 1389)
at about ten o'clock this morning, i stepped outside from the hospitality basement to get some air. I went around the corner. Chuong, a man who comes in on Fridays, was there. He was sitting against the side of the building, facing the bus mall. Down the street, Peter, my friend from the Chapel, was playing with a homeless couple's dog.
I slide my back down along the wall, and sit beside him. "I see you are very young, very happy. You want a good wife, a car, a house. I am not treated well. My sisters and brother, they all graduated from Washington in Seattle. One works for Boeing, the other is a teacher. I did not graduate. Do you smoke? I smoke, and everyday I grow weaker. Discipline yourself, and do not do as I have done.
"Do you like French literature? Camus? Sartre? L'Etranger?"
Yes! I love french lit, I say, and we sit at sixth and burnside, one man 44, the other 22, wet grey clouds dangling overhead, drinking coffee and hot chocolate, naming our favorite french writers like they were outfielders for the local minor league team.
***
at the chapel, we got another truck load of canned food in today. like yesterday, i had the fun job of kneeling inside the canopied truck bed and pulling the cartons of cans from the front to the tailgate. unlike yesterday, the crotch of my pants didn't rip out. i appreciate that.
at mass i was a eucharistic minister. "next week are you going to be the celebrant?" chip asked afterwards. "Last week you were the lector, now dispensing the blood of christ- it seems like you're on that trajectory."
Well, I wouldn't want to take father bob's job, i say. maybe next friday i can just read the gospel.
susanne came with me to mass, and we went out to lunch afterwards at sisters of the road. i didn't have any money, and she only had $2 in quarters, so we split cornbread and beans for 1.25. she drank iced tea, i drank coffee. only one person asked if she was my mom.
i stopped by the chapel on my way out to say goodbye to jim. we got distracted talking about ballparks and the sox. i'm really going to miss him.
susanne got to meet jessica, who gave me a copy of one of her favorite movies. "johnny stecchino," with roberto benigni. she also gave us an impromptu art history lesson on duccio. "you can always tell its duccio, because his blues are always the deepest and most dark, while his golds are always so thin."
i walked susanne back to her apartment, two blocks down from school. we saw ron, the charismatic man who sits in the front of the church for mass. hes the same one that begs for change and smokes a pipe. he also works for a free meal at sisters of the road, and was our waiter today. he got me an extra napkin and fork for susanne.
just as i cross clay street to walk up to school, susanne and i part ways. after our afternoon of extended communion, she tries to sum it up. "these guys... ron, peter, (chuong, i think) they are just wonderful human beings. they're holy men. no... somehow, they're more than that."
do not forget hospitality, for in hospitality you have secretly housed angels.
thanks for lunch, i say, wave, and watch her turn down park towards her apartment, both of us alone on the street.
My clothes stained with the wine
From the vineyards the saints tend.
Light has painted all acts
The same color
So I sit around and laugh all day
With my friends.
At night if I feel a divine loneliness
I tear the doors off Love's mansion
And wrestle God onto the floor.
He becomes so pleased with Hafiz
And says,
'Our hearts should do this more.'
-Hafiz of Shiraz (1320 - 1389)
at about ten o'clock this morning, i stepped outside from the hospitality basement to get some air. I went around the corner. Chuong, a man who comes in on Fridays, was there. He was sitting against the side of the building, facing the bus mall. Down the street, Peter, my friend from the Chapel, was playing with a homeless couple's dog.
I slide my back down along the wall, and sit beside him. "I see you are very young, very happy. You want a good wife, a car, a house. I am not treated well. My sisters and brother, they all graduated from Washington in Seattle. One works for Boeing, the other is a teacher. I did not graduate. Do you smoke? I smoke, and everyday I grow weaker. Discipline yourself, and do not do as I have done.
"Do you like French literature? Camus? Sartre? L'Etranger?"
Yes! I love french lit, I say, and we sit at sixth and burnside, one man 44, the other 22, wet grey clouds dangling overhead, drinking coffee and hot chocolate, naming our favorite french writers like they were outfielders for the local minor league team.
***
at the chapel, we got another truck load of canned food in today. like yesterday, i had the fun job of kneeling inside the canopied truck bed and pulling the cartons of cans from the front to the tailgate. unlike yesterday, the crotch of my pants didn't rip out. i appreciate that.
at mass i was a eucharistic minister. "next week are you going to be the celebrant?" chip asked afterwards. "Last week you were the lector, now dispensing the blood of christ- it seems like you're on that trajectory."
Well, I wouldn't want to take father bob's job, i say. maybe next friday i can just read the gospel.
susanne came with me to mass, and we went out to lunch afterwards at sisters of the road. i didn't have any money, and she only had $2 in quarters, so we split cornbread and beans for 1.25. she drank iced tea, i drank coffee. only one person asked if she was my mom.
i stopped by the chapel on my way out to say goodbye to jim. we got distracted talking about ballparks and the sox. i'm really going to miss him.
susanne got to meet jessica, who gave me a copy of one of her favorite movies. "johnny stecchino," with roberto benigni. she also gave us an impromptu art history lesson on duccio. "you can always tell its duccio, because his blues are always the deepest and most dark, while his golds are always so thin."
i walked susanne back to her apartment, two blocks down from school. we saw ron, the charismatic man who sits in the front of the church for mass. hes the same one that begs for change and smokes a pipe. he also works for a free meal at sisters of the road, and was our waiter today. he got me an extra napkin and fork for susanne.
just as i cross clay street to walk up to school, susanne and i part ways. after our afternoon of extended communion, she tries to sum it up. "these guys... ron, peter, (chuong, i think) they are just wonderful human beings. they're holy men. no... somehow, they're more than that."
do not forget hospitality, for in hospitality you have secretly housed angels.
thanks for lunch, i say, wave, and watch her turn down park towards her apartment, both of us alone on the street.