An unmarked police cruiser waited for me in the church parking lot.

Two officers walked toward me. I knew them. We worked together.

Still, this was unexpected. [more]

I sat in a chair like a school teacher in an empty classroom.
But instead of students, it was my boys I waited for.
"It’s ten minutes to two, where are they?”
I watched the door and the clock. [more]

The choir sang words that echoed those that my grandmother often shared, "My body got tired. I got to find a resting place. Every day is going to be Sunday, no more tears."

I viewed my grandmother’s body from the back of the church. The bind that held our family together was undone and laid to rest in a casket. What did that mean for my family? [more]

A sharp pain pierced me. It traveled down my back, through my hip, to my knee.

I held my knee. I rubbed it.

Even with all the agony that has been aching my body, I couldn't remember the last time I knelt on my knees to tell God about it. [more]

Part of our summer program includes hiring a “handyman.” The handyman’s role is to be a liaison between the staff and our program participants. Preferably, the handyman is a former — and reformed — gang member.

Yesterday we interviewed a young man.

He finished my sentences.

I asked, “Why do you want this—”

“Job?” he said.

“What qualifies you to work­­—”

“With gang members?” he said.

“I’m certified. I’ve been a gunman since my youth.” He paused. “On the streets, my reputation speaks for itself.” [more]