By: Darrelyn L. Tutt

Shrapnel embedded in the mind.
Fragments impaled in the soul.
Slivered memories embedded in the secret place.
An internal web of threaded wounds.
And the fields are ripe for harvest.
The alcoholic reaches for his bottle.
The cutter reaches for her razor.
The user reaches for his meth.
The anorexic pushes away her plate.
The obese reaches for two.
The abuser taps on the porn.
The smoker reaches for the Marlboro.
The gossip passes along the word.
And the fields are ripe for harvest.
This sea of humanity broken by life's conditions.
Playing host and hostage to sins unrelenting temporal aids.
Creating temporal make-shift families drawn by a similar reach of remedy.
Suffering uncontrollably.
Bleeding and hemorrhaging unceremoniously.
Lost. Abandoned. Isolated. Alone.
"Lift up your eyes, and look on the fields; for they are white already to harvest."
John 435
And until our hearts break,
Until we begin to walk through the fields of the wounded and dress the wounds,
And carry stretchers offering aid to the maimed and derelict.
Until we're willing to "touch" the diseased, impaired, and impoverished, and perform CPR on the lost in our midst.
Until we love ...
We are instigators and inducers to the growing problem of pain.
We must activate our faith through our feet.
We must see that our mission is right across the street.
We must know who lives there and then go there.
And we must love.
"Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal."
1 Corinthians 13:1