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
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)