Starting
Point A
moment, long ago, of purest love
By JILL ZASADNY BLANCHE
Juanita lived down in the projects
by the Kansas River in those days when I was first involved in the Jesus
Movement of the 70s, full of zeal. I was working down there, a girl of
only 15, and Juanita pattered after me with grimy blonde hair juxtaposed with
an immaculate smile. She epitomized the plight of the place -- such new hope
infused with old despair.
One day Juanita showed up with her foot thickly and professionally
bandaged. She told us she had stepped barefoot onto a broken bottle and been
taken to the hospital. She was hobbling around outside, staying close to me. We
settled on a grassy slope as I waited for my mom to come pick me up.
I worried about Juanitas wound, for it was a serious one and
I wondered how it could keep from infection. Just then a group of young boys
from the project came up and circled us. For no apparent reason, perhaps other
than boredom, they began to throw rocks at us. I was incredulous and stunned
until one hit Juanitas injured foot and she began to cry. This brought
out the mama bear in me, and I stood up. As I rose, I began to speak to the
boys, who were not very many years younger than me. I should have been enraged
by what they were doing, but instead the words I found coming out of my mouth
were not angry words. I was speaking to them gently, and the words stopped
their assault. I was filled with such an emotional overflow that I told them in
complete truth, I love you. I really do. Jesus loves you. I was
crying.
It sounds so hokey and fake to my ears today that if anyone told
me that story I know I would struggle not to laugh. So go ahead -- I give you
complete freedom. I only know that I can still feel the strength of that love
when I think about them. They were so embarrassed or afraid of me that they ran
off down the hill. I believe it was one of the purest loves I have ever felt,
even purer than the love I have for my children, for they are mine. These
children were Gods.
So I have grown and attained education and biblical finesse, but I
have never again experienced anything close to what happened that day. I wonder
what I do now that shows my faith. And Im not sure I know. Faith is not
expressed in negatives. I do not show faith because I do not do drugs; I do not
kill people. I show faith because I do something. But what?
The day I sat with Juanita on that hillside I believe I would have
given my 15-year-old life to protect her. But I cannot do with acquired wisdom
and accumulated college credits what I did that day. Now I would be enraged;
then I was filled with love.
What good is it to profess faith without practicing it? Such
faith has no power to save one, has it? If a brother or sister has nothing to
wear and no food for the day, and you say to them, Goodbye and good luck!
Keep warm and well fed, but do not meet their bodily needs, what good is
that? So it is with the faith that does nothing in practice. It is thoroughly
lifeless (James 2:14-16).
Jill Zasadny Blanche is currently working on a book about the
Jesus Movement of the 1970s, titled Following Gawd. Her e-mail address
is grnacrs@prodigy.net
National Catholic Reporter, January 12,
2001
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