the crescendo

so here’s a paper i turned in. the poem is by my brother. the fiction is a fiction based on the poem – it is not about my brother. it is completely fictional….but a good read i think. enjoy.

On a Sunday morning in earliy may

The Rhodendrons are blooming

and every bird is singing

as I walk the three blocks

from my house to Church

I have a view

it’s panaramic

Bellingham bay, San Juan Islands and Cascade mountains

I can see straight on into Canada

I sit in a pew as light filters in through stained glass

I sing to God

At the podium someone is telling us about orphans

In Uganda, with no food,

no shelter,

no money

Asking if we could help

lend our support,

money or prayer

It’s moving

On my way out

I walk past their booth

Look straight into the big eyes of a Young Black Boy in a picture

And keep walking

Go Home

Order some Little Ceasars

Scripture states that the only religion which God accepts

Is taking care of orphans and widows in their distress

If that’s the case

then it is time to quote REM

Because that is me in the corner

But this isn’t in the spotlight

in shadows and crowds

I’m performing my magic tricks

Apathy is my magic wand,

I’m pulling a rabbit out of my hat,

Turning reality into fantasy

Orphans turn into science fiction

People turn into statistics

something far away

something that can be ignored

like a parking ticket or library fine

people lose their humanity

In Christian theology we have a term for this

Bull Shit!

It’s a shift in focus

From changing to waiting

Christ taught us to pray

“Thy Kingdom come”

Instead of bringing it

I wait for it to come

In lethargy I have great patience

Heaven is supposed to come down

Descend to earth

Heaven is not someplace far away

Someplace to go when we die

Heaven is near,

it is knocking

It is availible

NOW

It will start to come in me

When I get off my ass

Fill out the damn card

send a fraction of my paycheck to buy vaccinations and education

For someone who wasn’t born on the right continent

With the right color of skin

Heaven will come

When I see people as what they are

Art

Created in the image of God

Each made with divinity dripping from every pour

Each the pinnacle of creation

Each made with more care

detail, attention,

and love

Than I can fathom

Each one the Creator took a step back from

To get a better look

Decided

With tears welling up

from the bottom of him

That it was good

it was very good

Heaven will come when every tear is dried from tired eyes

When every head is lifted

When pain and mourning cease

When hope dawns

When love finally conquers

once and for all

So, lord haste the day

when my faith shall be sight

the clouds be rolled back as a scroll

the trump shall resound

The lord descend

and the Dancers will dance upon injustice

-Bull Shit by Jake Tucker

Innocent

His name is Innocent – though he is not. At seven, the defiant boy dared to play in the luscious mango trees of Northern Uganda. The world was his and nothing would stop him from ingesting every inch of it. So, laughing, he ran into the forest his mother warned him about. Laughter quickly turned to fear. A gang of children, beaten and brainwashed by the LRA – a dying outfit initiated by an admittedly demon possessed woman and bent on overthrowing the Ugandan government – nabbed Innocent, dragging him to the LRA camp where he was trained to be a ruthless kidnapper, rapist, and murderer. From mangos to murder in a simple month’s time; Innocent’s innocence was lost.

Eight years later, Innocent defected. He found an abandoned souvenir shop that became his frantic hideout. He knew the LRA would hunt him down and kill him. He thought it would be better that way. But, that common though questionable urge to survive over-took him and he lived, paralyzed by fear, never leaving his hideout.

Carly

She walked across the stage, taking the diploma from her favorite professor as he whispered in her ear, “Well done! Go get ‘em!” The next morning, she woke-up and worked the same job barista. She made a double-chocolate-chip frappuccino for an over-privileged junior high girl who didn’t care that Carly graduated with honors from Western Washington University; in fact, this particular girl took a few sips and realized that this high-caloric drink might make her fat. She tossed it into the garbage and left.

Carly limply watched the sceen just long enough to see Charlie, the craziest of Bellingham’s crazy homeless, rescue the delectable refuse. He reclined for moment, imagining himself a welcomed customer. Carly smiled, basking in the joy her monotonous work brought Charlie, as Chips – a nickname earned by the amount chips he ate while drunk at parties – tapped her shoulder.

Chips was the Shift Supervisor – a position of modest power that he reveled in. “Since you aren’t doing anything productive,” he scolded, “go get rid of Charlie. He’ll lower our STAR points!” (STAR being an acronym thought up by an ex-youth pastor turned Starbucks executive who thought judging employees on four easy to remember categories would improve morale).

Carly turned to Chips, proclaimed “I quit!” and stormed out. As she sat in her car, breathing heavily with self-satisfaction, she realized that she was now amongst the multitude unemployed college graduates. She dreamt of making coffee for Charlie professionally – but realized this dream would lead to her own homelessness. So, she turned to the only thing she could think of: a mission trip.

Carly’s time in Uganda changed everything. Nothing was so haunting as a photo she took of one boy who refused to leave an old souvenir shop. She brought him a mango one day. He smiled as though he remembered a past-life. Before she could snap a shot of his smile, his eyes returned to classic World-Vision-sponsorship-ad emptiness. She couldn’t wait to go back! She sold everything she had to raise money – everything, that is, except for a pile of blankets and scarves she gave to Charlie over a Dolcé de Leché latte as Chips nervously watched the two lounging in the Starbucks lobby.

On Sunday, she spoke at church, sure that once she introduced the people to Innocent and to Charlie, they would be forever changed – that the knowledge of the world around them would prompt them to action. No one cared. One college boy seemed to pause long enough to see the depth of Innocent’s empty eyes – but he moved on, murmuring something about ordering from Little Caesars’, “No one makes crazy bread like that little cartoon Caesar dude,” he sarcastically joked as Carly’s hope withered.

Jack

When Carly spoke at church, Jack thought of his sister. They were alike. Somehow, for them the world was a different place – one Jack couldn’t quite see. He knew there was poverty and that he basked in the pleasure of white-male-privilege and, to some degree, he hated it. But he didn’t know what to do. A self-reliant twenty-year-old, he rarely made it to church, primarily worshiping the Seahawks. He didn’t know a pastor – other than his sister – who he rarely talked to for fear he’d get another unsolicited AIDS orphan rant. Christianity meant Jack and his Bible against the world! On the dark days when his Bible seemed silent, he blamed his lack of faith, cried himself to sleep, and moved on in the morning.

Tonight would be one of those nights; he’d looked into the eyes of an African boy and lost himself. He asked questions – questions he knew his Bible wouldn’t answer – and his sister would answer all too quickly. So he distracted himself with pizza and poetry. Picking up his pizza, he passed Charlie, who seemed crazier, sporting a pink scarf. Something about the girly scarf touched Jack. He handed off his coveted Crazy Bread to the crazy man and headed home to lose himself in pizza and the computer screen, as he typed his greatest poem yet.

What’s next? Maybe Jack will live among the poor. Or maybe he’ll teach immigrant children English and laugh with them for the few hours a day they are allowed to be children, or go on to be a youth pastor and teach hundreds of youth what it is to care for orphans and widows in their distress? And maybe, one day, youth ministry will get the better of him and he’ll become a Starbucks executive – only instead of an acronym to boost morale, he’ll transform Starbucks into an all-fair-trade organization, insisting on the education and protection of coffee-grower’s children – children like Innocent. Or, maybe he’ll go on, becoming evermore immune to and disillusioned by the reality of the world around him as his gorges on Little Caesars’ and writes sarcastic poetry.