Thoughts of spring make my heart beat faster. The daffodils are getting bigger every day. Our magnolia bush will soon burst into bloom. The grass is greening, cardinals greet me during my daily walks, and it’s almost time to put the winter coats in storage.
But a heart-stopping NPR story the other day changed my innocent anticipation of spring. It was about an annual sign of spring in Chicago, the rise in gang violence. It happens every year, when the weather improves and kids hit the streets. Last year, the report said, almost 700 youth were hit by gunfire and 66 were killed. The reporters described several programs in the schools aimed at young, adolescent boys, interventions to keep them out of gangs and in school. The problem is, sometimes the streets grow so dangerous in spring, kids can’t get to school.
The story was squeezed between stories of global magnitude – air strikes in Libya and the earthquake in Tokyo. But I kept thinking, “Chicago is only six hours away. These children are my fellow citizens facing a hopeless spring.”
My heart breaks to think of children who will see drug deals instead of daffodils, hear gunshots instead of bird song, and smell blood instead of apple blossoms this spring. My spirits flag as I get ready for my daily walk, a grace I take for granted while little children in Chicago watch television behind locked doors.
Cruel spring.
Cold comfort.
Always winter and never Christmas in Narnia.
Always winter and never spring in Chicago ghettos.
Aslan, when will you come?
