Essays

Notes From The Office – The Squeegee Kids

I know the whole conversation about Squeegee Boys is fraught. Everybody has an opinion, and stories of scary encounters abound. But I love the Squeegee Boys. When I head home, I usually decide whether to go President Street to Lombard, or take MLK to Russell Street – and it’s based on which group of kids I feel like seeing that day.

Last fall, sitting at a light, headed for MLK Blvd, a young man came up to do the windshield. He had a wonderful smile, so genuine, so open – and when he finished, I handed him a twenty-dollar bill. I don’t know why I did that. I don’t have much in the way of disposable income, I don’t think I had ever given any of the kids more than five dollars, but on this day, a little voice in my head encouraged me to dig deep.

He looked at the money, and with total joy and astonishment on his face he said, “Mama! Today is my birthday!” He reached through my open window and gave me the biggest hug. “Thank you! Thank you!” he said, as he skipped down the street to the next car. I will never forget him.

Last week, driving down President Street, I stopped at a light and started up a conversation. It was one of those hot, humid August afternoons when the whole world is wilting, and when I asked, “Hey! How’s it going?’ my young friend shook his head and said, “I’m outta here, it’s so hot.” I said, “I know what you mean, I was mowing yesterday, and I thought I was going to die.” “No mama, don’t say that!” He was emphatic. So serious, so concerned. That throwaway phrase, “I thought I was going to die…” meant something completely different to him. In those ninety seconds of conversation, in that terribly short period of time, he already cared if I lived or died. And clearly, dying was something he knew a lot about.

We live in different worlds. I understand that every day because those kids are on the corner in the afternoon. They aren’t sitting at the table doing homework. They aren’t at football practice for a club team that they have to pay to be part of. They are working. They are quick to smile, quick to be grateful, and sometimes we bump fists as I drive away.

I work hard. They work hard. I cannot know their lives, but I admire their brotherhood. I admire their energy, their joy and their compassion. And I am grateful for the way they remind me every day, of the great grace of this world.

Robert Bartholf Surrick Eulogy

Many people here today will be talking about Robert Bartholf Surrick, the lawyer. Or Robert Surrick, the judicial activist. Or Bob Surrick, the friend and sailor. But I will be talking about Uncle Bob – my Uncle Bob.

We are a complicated crew, this Surrick family. The jagged edges of broken alliances litter the field of cast-off love. It wasn’t easy to be the son of Jack and Florence - and for those of us who know the stories, the hurricane that just passed by was perfectly named. It wasn’t easy to be the third child of six, born to alcoholic parents, living in an era when that could not be named. But he did it. He joined the army, joined the firm, bought the big house. Had a wife and three kids. He was on the board at Aronimink, and on the vestry of his church. He did it all. He lived the American dream.

But he couldn’t stand corruption. Just couldn’t stand it. He would not let go of the fight until justice had prevailed – no matter what the cost. And I spent some time wondering if this was something that he maybe could have worked out in therapy, until a reporter asked me last winter why I spent twenty-five years fighting for my voice to be heard and I realized that it’s part of me. It’s part of us. Our family, the Surrick family. We were Quakers way back when, and it’s in our blood. Justice is in our blood.

He could never understand why others didn’t see truth as elemental. For him, it was as necessary as the air he breathed, the wind in his sails, the reason to be alive. His reason to alive. And it was more important than family. That is the beautiful, terrible truth. Rather than trying to fix the unfixable and mend the un-mendable, he left Pennsylvania and went looking for happiness.

There are lots of parts to that story, as you can imagine. There are legends, and myths, and broken dreams. But in the end, what he taught me was that the stuff doesn’t matter. The letters after your name, the house, the cars, the country club membership. What matters is that you do something with your life that changes the world. That you follow your heart. And that you stand up and fight, even if the fight will cost you everything you used to care about.

I remember sailing with him on the Chesapeake Bay and it was just us and the sun and the water and we were talking about things that were deeply important, and then we weren’t. We were in the cockpit of his beloved boat, together. It was quiet, it was peaceful, and we were gliding forward.

For many, he was not an easy man to love, but for me, he will always be my Uncle Bob – a straight talking, shoot from the hip, stand for what you believe in, maverick- down-to-his-toes kind of guy. He loved all of his family, and the truth is, that never, ever ended.

Jesus Wept

I’ve been asking around.

There are a lot of people who know more about the bible than I do. Some of them have been thinking about this for most of their adult lives. And most of them are extremely smart. So, last week I made some calls. I wanted to know why Jesus wept. I wanted to know the context. Why was his weeping so important at that very moment? Why was it two words? And, like so many other things in the bible, does the story’s meaning change relative to one’s personal perspective – so that there is no single answer?

Yes. There is no single answer, at least according to the polling of my experts.

There was one answer that I found to be singularly unsatisfying, and it was, “Jesus loved Lazarus. He wept because his friend was dead.” I just don’t buy it. I get that Jesus had real human feelings. And I get that he probably didn’t have a lot of good friends, friends he could count on, friends who would laugh at his stupid jokes. But it’s much more complicated. Jesus was off doing other miraculous things. He could have gone right away, but he didn’t. He might have been thinking that since his days were counting down, he needed to be out there, in the world making miracles happen, swaying public opinion, bringing the good news – and that he would go see Lazarus when he had a minute.

I can imagine that if that were the case, it would have been awful to get there and find out that Lazarus had died. He would be looking at the tomb, looking at Mary and Martha, knowing that he had failed them in the most personal way. He failed because he deemed his path more important than his friends’ life. I can see him weeping as he saw (and felt) the price of his hubris.

I can also see a world in which, as he approached his own death, and saw his dead friend’s tomb, he became keenly aware of what a broken heart actually felt like. And then, to compound the grief, it came to him in a moment, that all of the people who loved and believed in him were going to be suffering in exactly this way, as he was dying on the cross. That had to be a moment of transcendent revelation about what being human really meant. And the greater suffering that he was about to cause.

And then there is that other idea. Jesus is out there, going about his business, making miracles, trying to change the entire world’s idea of love and compassion, he knows he’s going to be crucified (and he’s good with that) and he is moving forward like any ambitious guy in his thirties. He is absolutely dedicated to his mission. He is unafraid. He is a warrior. Jesus resurrects Lazarus. (God is going to resurrect Jesus.) But this is not without terrible cost. God wants Jesus to know what suffering is. Not the mortal, physical suffering that will be his on the cross, but the particularly human suffering that belongs to all of us – the loss that comes so hard, so fast, and so deep, that we cannot imagine surviving another day. And God gives him one more gift – in the death of Lazarus.

We are told the God sacrificed his only son. God knew that Jesus would be resurrected but it did not blunt the pain of experiencing his son’s agony. They are on the same path. It is not surprising that the words, “Jesus wept.” are part of the bible. What is surprising is that the words, “God wept.” are not.