Polis

After 63 miles I'm totally exhausted. Cars are beginning to appear fuzzy and it's getting hard to focus on anything. Buddy and I have gone straight through the centre of Indianapolis via Washington Street and now we're finally coming into more open spaces. The fire chief at Sugar Creek Township, Station 42 has allowed me to pitch the tent behind the building, and I have no doubt that I'll be comatose momentarily...but first a minute to reflect.

Navigating this urban setting hasn't been without it's memorable moments, both rewarding and bitterly sad. I've found the majority of people around here to be incredibly warm and caring. As Cameron says,

'Hoosiers are lovers.'

Indeed, it's been hard to get more than a few miles without having someone offer some sort of cheerful assistance. However, since one might allege that these journals are being written by someone wearing overly optimistic rose tinted glasses, I'll provide, notwithstanding the absence of examples (if you've spent any time on this earth, your imagination will suffice) a brief picture of objectivity.

Walk Washington Street from the far west to the east side of this urban jungle and you will hear a sorrowful song, and whether this dirge, sung on the fringes, is merely a trope mirroring the incessant exchanges made at the heart, or merely a rueful resonance born of poverty, the reality of a broken, depraved society is difficult to deny.
Now there's not a soap box strong enough to support me, so the last thing I want is to turn this entry into a finger-pointing rant. I'd much rather highlight my hope in the transforming power of grace and its ability to inspire redemption; I'm persuaded that to the extent that this city has been wounded, she can also be healed. People like Daniel, Cameron, Anna, Pops and Mike are the foundation for my belief.