blueberry eyes
It's late at night: 2 or 3am. My feet hurt from walking, and my mind is beginning to fog over. I am walking with two friends through the rougher part of the homosexual district of Toronto. The streets are fairly clear of people, until our constant footsteps bring us to the main road that we turn onto. We intuitively stop talking, closing our mouths so that we can open our eyes, ears and hearts. Two ladies, well dressed, talk casually to each other on the street corner under the lamppost, exchanging the normal friendly banter. Transvestites. Selling their bodies on the street for a few dollars. A "lady" in a red dress curses at her feet while she messes with white high heels that are obviously too high and far too small for her feet. She calls her all-white-dressed, blonde friend over to her, and asks for help getting her shoes back on. From the conversation that follows, it's obvious that this is not the first time she has asked for help. The lady in the white dress is happy to oblige. Community; friendship; personhood; dignity.
It's the next day: the afternoon. I've just finished praying through the penitential rite at a large and very ornate Anglican church. Gothic architecture and the history of the Canadian church adorns the walls - it feels like a Catholic church in its grandness and splendor. I have prayed for forgiveness of my sins. I am judgmental. One foot in front of the other, out into the gardens that separate the church from the St. Lawrence market. As I walk alone, I see three ladies who seem oddly out of place strolling through the garden laughing together and talking to someone on the phone. More transvestites. Looking closely at them, their faces become familiar. I am in the presence of the same transvestites that had been selling their bodies only the night before. They are still together and still cross-dressed, though less seductive in their outfit choice. They laugh and banter together as as friends do, speaking of shopping and of visits to mutual friends. I am witnessing a community. I am witnessing persons who are not defined by their career choice. I am witnessing, in a small and broken way, the love that marks the King, and His Kingdom. I am witnessing the image of God.
It's the next day: the afternoon. I've just finished praying through the penitential rite at a large and very ornate Anglican church. Gothic architecture and the history of the Canadian church adorns the walls - it feels like a Catholic church in its grandness and splendor. I have prayed for forgiveness of my sins. I am judgmental. One foot in front of the other, out into the gardens that separate the church from the St. Lawrence market. As I walk alone, I see three ladies who seem oddly out of place strolling through the garden laughing together and talking to someone on the phone. More transvestites. Looking closely at them, their faces become familiar. I am in the presence of the same transvestites that had been selling their bodies only the night before. They are still together and still cross-dressed, though less seductive in their outfit choice. They laugh and banter together as as friends do, speaking of shopping and of visits to mutual friends. I am witnessing a community. I am witnessing persons who are not defined by their career choice. I am witnessing, in a small and broken way, the love that marks the King, and His Kingdom. I am witnessing the image of God.