My Roots

The prisoner sits on the bed, head down, the preacher in attendance, the hour of execution near, the man weeps, the preacher listens, waits, what words can he use, he thinks to himself, the weeping continues, the whimper of a child, perhaps a child hiding in a corner, about to face punishment, the child though, does not understand, just waits. The weeping eases, the preacher asks, anyone you want to pass on last wishes to, family friends or others, roots maybe.

Roots, how do you have roots if you have never filled out, if life is cut short, the vitals missing, nice thoughts for a professional therapist, but on the verge of execution, who worries about the roots. The prisoner says nothing, fate has been accomplished, the teachers said he’d reach a bad end.

Solomon sighs, the age expectation cut short from the start, the snide remarks so many have to put up with, the down looks, you deserve to be down there, what do you expect, considering where you come from, all the jibes, never given the notion of great expectation, like an annoying sound in the ear, will it ever go away. Solomon wondered at the mind set some have, how it’s constructed, and how it’s a weight on the shoulders, having to justify oneself, then thought of Jesus, the everyday test, the everyday tricks, trying to catch him up. No one is immune from the human psyche, and the thoughts stored in there, even the Great One had to put up with it. Solomon was building a bridge of understanding, well, trying to explain how we come to hold differing opinions, where do they come from. It’s in the Holy Books, the descendants of Jesus, all written out, to explain the spiritual journey, the passing down of the faith, so by the time of Jesus, there was a solid foundation of faith on which there was building ground.

The prisoner, on his feet, about to take his final steps in the flesh, the pastor behind him, two wardens in front and behind, the prison governor leading the parade, the mood solemn, a flotilla of news people waiting, a mob outside chanting, is he dead yet, a total circus, while the family of the prisoner pray for a miracle, a last minute reprieve, hoping. My roots my roots he thinks, while he shuffles along, feet in chains, as if he could escape, dear Lord he says, you dealt me a strange hand, from the start.

The phone rings, the procession stops, it’s the presidents office. Trust in God, amen.

1 thought on “My Roots

  1. Incredible content Sir. I read it several times. My Dear Dad always told us to pray ๐Ÿ™ for humanity. He was The Commissioner of Police. Reading your words I had tears. Will man ever learn that killing Brothers and Sisters on earth is evil? Shalom ๐Ÿ˜”๐Ÿ˜”

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