Not being of the churchy-poo ilk (oh wait, I'm a preacher's daughter, never mind) I tend to resist traditional boxes and spoon fed meaning. As we moved through the Stations of the Cross yesterday evening, I was filled with inexplicable emotion and chills upon reading the meditation associated with each station. Downright eerie how some of them fit...
The darkness of the Convention Center stop.
A more obvious poverty as we moved further south on the Red Line.
Tear-like dripping copper trails on some of the public art.
Rival graffitti wars on the sides of abandoned buildings.
And so we sit on Saturday.
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