I am walking home
in the early January dark
it is only 5:00 pm
and it could be
midnight – here
in West Central
someone
is always
awake at midnight,
here
in Washington’s
poorest
neighborhood.
Last week
my neighbor
Donnie –
who is 21 years old in body
at least 60 in lifetime sorrows
and still, amazingly
only 5 or 6 in spirit –
told me
the electricity
was turned off
at their house.
They would have to move.
Yesterday
at church
I preached
on the wisemen
following the star,
how in every religion
light
is a manifestation
of the divine presence.
Did you know
we still have no
fucking clue
what the word
Magi
really means?
But we still use it
As in magic
And magician
And let me tell you
I have no fucking clue
how my neighbors
really survive
Except
there is a kind of magic
in the ways people
Spell each other
around here.
I get home
and Donnie is outside
like always
and above his front door
a bare bulb
Shines
in the darkness.
“Hey!” I yell
“The lights are on at your house!”
And for a moment
I experience
That light –
Any light –
All light –
For the miracle
that it is.
I walk inside my house
and wonder
why the only places
we say
“Lord,”
are in church
and in the slums.
Donnie’s family
pays $400 a month more
in rent
than I do
for a way shittier house
and I wonder
who is really Lord
of this land
full of churches
full of Christians
full of people
who love the baby Jesus
who was born
in a stable
because of a housing crisis
in Bethlehem –
Do you know
how many people
in West Central
live in garages
and cars
because there is
no room for them
in the weekly-rate
motel?
I confess I am
a south hill girl
born and raised.
At Christmas
my god the twinkly lights
on my old block
wrapping every tree and roofline
in the dark are just –
Heavenly.
But give me Donnie’s
bare,
glowing
bulb.
May it be
the star
I follow.
Katy Shedlock is a slam poet, United Methodist pastor, and community organizer in Spokane, WA, where she lives and works in one of the state’s poorest and most rapidly gentrifying neighborhoods.