Windshields with holes

Windshields with holes in them, empty buildings, broken glass, billboards with titles like ‘wicked’, trash strewn lots, and graffiti polluting every available surface, consuming even those honorable and upright edifices which were, at one time, built with care and dignity... these are not impressions as we drive through some third world country, but as we pull through Chicago on the way out of the country. Not that the train didn’t go through farmland with sun strewn meadows and dappled forest. Not that small town USA didn’t offer inviting main streets and handsome store fronts. But it is grieving that in a country where education, welfare to work, WIC, and churches on every street corner offers so many hopeful options, redemption is not treasured. Gratefulness has been replaced with taking far too much for granted. The train rumbles over former neighborhoods. Now they seem devoid of life. Where are the people, what changed? Where are concerned and involved citizens? As I listen to those around me I find potential answers. Two seats over, the depth of conversation between seemingly educated people does not rise above the actresses on TV shows and what elements of ‘fun’ Chicago at night has to offer. ‘People’ magazine seems to be the most popular reading material. Several passengers exhibit extreme stages of nervous, anxious, and angry. They move constantly, hiding behind hair, clothed in black, with bitterness etched on their overly thin, young faces. The messages on their teeshirts scream, but all other sound is bottled up explosively.

Two seats back college age kids discuss ‘taking a year off’ and not being sure of life goals. Blond dreadlocks hang limp. Baggage highlights are wave boards and guitars. In the dining car an under dressed single mother with two very different children flirts with another passenger. Their language is loud and every sentence is punctuated with a four letter word. The children seek negative attention, having been ignored too long. Several oversized people sit in lounge chairs, never moving; hardly breathing. Except for the repetitive action of putting amazing amounts in their mouths, there is little other sign of life.

Without a vision the people perish. Quoting from ‘Creative Prayer’ by Brigid Herman we note, “Not only is there today a tragic scarcity of volunteers for distinctly spiritual work, but even the most broadly humanitarian movements appeal for workers in vain.” It would be laughable to seek such participation from my fellow passengers. The concept is too foreign. But what of the rest of us? What of the future? What of the many urban jungles like those we pass over now that splinter this nation?