A Graffiti in Chicago

We’re in Chicago. Impressive in its glory, potholed at its fringes. Daughter Acacia and husband Mark came here from Seattle some years back to start a church, just west of downtown. They were offered a break–a trip to Napa with friends–and requested Anne’s services to watch the kids. I came along.

Not that I had to be coaxed. I marvel at the children. And not just at these four, but all 16, spread around the country . . . all prospering in their place. I credit their parents, and see it all connected to a spiritual decision I made many years ago, before any of their parents were born.

To keep myself occupied between activities, I looked over Mark’s expansive library. I took down Twelve Years a Slave by Solomon Northup, first published, 1845. It’s a phenomenal work, autobiographical, well-written, and quite a juxtaposition, this life of ease and that one of horrors, not so long ago. I’m told there was a movie, but it would have been hard to watch. The book is sobering.

Speaking of juxtaposition, I took a picture of a graffiti on a wall nearby. I can’t quite make sense of the graphic but the verbiage is blatant enough. Seems he got it half right, but only half.

Don’t know what Solomon Northup would have thought of it. In the end he was saved from his slavery, but not by himself, and never could have been.

As I think about, it was rather the same with me. The situation was very different, of course, but there was a rescue. One that I couldn’t have affected myself. I’m very grateful, gathered now with some of the fruits of that decision, these days in Chicago.

From here we travel on.

P.S. We take pictures as we go. I’ve got a few on Facebook (here).