Weary, Wanting, and Waiting

I know.  Blabba Mout has been silent for a few days.  I have simply being trying to digest the outcome of the Trayvon Martin murder trial.  Yes, I cried.  I was overcome with grief. I hear the voice of my brother, crying from the ground. How many?  How many black bodies bathed in blood cry out for justice? I am weary.  Weary of the hatred, weary of the violence.  The fuel of my faith has once again collided with the roadblock of my reality and I find myself in that murky place where faith is made or broken. That place of tension that is thirsting to be quenched.  That place of  nebulous nastiness that longs for a tolerable and tidy conclusion.  Weary.  Weary, wanting, and still waiting.

I am wanting for the day when we will be as outraged by the killings of black children from Camden,NJ to  Cleveland, OH; from East St. Louis, MO to East Point, GA; from Baton Rouge, LA to Birmingham, AL and all those other cities across the country that could be named.  I am wanting for the day when every child's  life will be valuable whether s/he receives media coverage or not because we are not without knowledge of their stories.  I am wanting for the day when, whether by white hands, black hands, or the blue hands we will find ourselves aroused with the same ire and resentment and be compelled to raise our collective voices to hold systems accountable -- whether they be government systems, educational systems, or religious systems.  I am wanting for that day.

Finally, I am waiting.  I am waiting for Moses, for Joshua, for somebody!  For Paul, for Peter, for somebody!  It may be that if instead of saying, "I am Trayvon Martin" if I would say "I am Moses" something might change; and perhaps if instead of saying, "I am Trayvon Martin", you would say "I am Moses" something could happen.  After all, we are what we think.