I had known Deva and Carpenter maybe a year by then. I’d seen the amazing things they had done, healing the abused kids they worked with. I’d seen the patience and the love. The miracles. I’d been won over.
I was driving somewhere with my older brother. He was going on in his cynical way about some inner city black kids, and how screwed up they were. How they were a blight to society, blah, blah, and how all this was just perpetuating to another generation.
I piped up, “I know these people out west, who for sure could help them.” The people of course were Deva and Carpenter.
Then it hit me. By knowing them, and seeing what was possible, I didn’t have any excuse any more. I couldn’t wait for them to do it all. I had to myself.
I had no excuse any more. I could’t be less than the best I could be; the most loving, the most helpful, the most committed to making the world a better place.
I haven’t always lived up, but I’ve never been able to turn back. That’s the true horror of meeting remarkable people.