On the corkboard in front of me is the photographic portrait of a black child. He is staring straight into the camera. His eyes are big and brown. He is not smiling. He seems terrified. Or, he seems -- angry. Anticipation is written in his expression, as though to ask, "Who are you? Can you help me? Do you care? What is it with you? What am I to you?"

As I am captivated by his eyes, sometimes I think, "This is the way I must look to God."

Thunderstruck, estymied, (a situation or problem presenting such difficulties as to discourage or defeat any attempt to deal with or resolve it), shocked and surprised by the cards life has dealt. Wondering if there is a way out. Wondering when the next blow will come.

That is the way this kid looks.

That is the way I feel.

Where are you God?

Are you a disinterested camera lens, staring back at me, perhaps amused, in your clear, cold, stoic, inanimate stillness? Or, helpless, smiling, embarrassed, at your ineptness to help? Do you feel as I do when I look at this child -- a distance? An unbridigeable chasm? How can I put a smile on this child's face? How can you put a smile on mine?

So you want to give me the world? The ends of the earth as my possession? Are you kidding? Want to give this black child the same thing? Yes? Well, so do I.

Where do we go from here? There you are, in the abode of God. Here I am, sitting in my chair in Georgia. And there he is, sitting somewhere in Africa. I send him a few bucks each month. That's more than you send me. Isn't it? Do I have this right?

You sent your only Son, you say?

-- PDM

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