The following was written hastily and with NO edits in 1998.  I had just started an office-based job after having taught elementary school for 9 years.  I had the great pleasure of working with Chuck in the summers of 1994-96.

My brief daily interludes from

my cubicle:  What would Pablo

think of this ergonomically safe

climate controlled sound absorbing

cubist interior designer’s creation?

 

The close squareness the

quiet tapping, clicking, beeping

and buzzing of computers,spiced

by the occasional song of the fax.

One could quietly die in one’s

fantastically adjustable wheeled 

and padded chair and maybe in

a day or two or a week someone

would notice that you had not

yet taken your break.

 

I’d like to take a break now,

before returning to previously

programmed material and activities

edited for your enjoyment and formatted

to fit your scream, to exit the

hall, to step out, to be

“outside the box” and mention

my little friend and personal

savior Chuck Sullivan.  Many

of you don’t know him, some of

you might, and certainly none of

you could appreciate him as

much as God Himself.

 

Chuck is a monk on sabbatical.

Chuck is a soldier of God’s fortune.

Chuck is gifted with the Word,

and lots of others.

 

Chuck builds the mile-high stadium

where The Game is played.  Life

wearing the face of a refugee, a nun,

a mother, a father, a milkman

a ball player a president or an addict,

and death wearing, well, a hood.

 

We’re all invited to the game,

and few of us attend.  We all

want to know what the score is,

but none of us wants to take to

the field.

 

A field of springtime beauty,

sun shining, breeze blowing

snowing petals of lily white dogwoods

down to the still cold eyelids

of the sacrificed child, asleep

in perpetuity at the new and

last home away from home.

 

Please don’t let the children of

Kosovo pay your price for loving

your God and hating your brother.

 

(Please consider getting your copy of Chuck’s Alphabet of Grace)