trevor’s good friday homily 2022
Have you ever thought of the inside of a school bus as the belly of a whale?
I do.
At night, as I stand inside the old, gutted bus that is my home, I think about being in the belly of a whale.
Darkness with a hint of light.
Shadows of knapsacks holding all our belongings in the world.
Quietness with a whisper of deep breaths from ship sized lungs.
Echoes of the world.
Small pieces of sounds.
The end of the day of life and work of migrant workers on a Johns Island farm.
Stillness.
I feel the words rise up inside of me that my abuelo taught me to say when it is dark and I am afraid.
“I am salt.
I am light.
I am made from the dust.”
I sit down on the floor in the belly of my whale.
A feeling covers me like the old blanket my abuela made for me years and miles ago.
Gently.
Tenderly.
“Why am I here?” I think.
I hear a still, small voice in the belly of my whale.
"To be, Tomás.
To be Tomás.”
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