I want to live a life of service. I saw him through the bars of a Birmingham jail. He was sitting on the hard and less than comfortable cotton bed, in a room the size of a small Hyde Park apartment bathroom. His fingers were intertwined as his chin rested on the connection of his hands. He pondered, as his thoughts were being scattered into the space of eternity as he simultaneously attempted to remember the reason for his fight for equality. He humbly questions his actions and surveys his heart for any compromise. He decided if he could go back, his actions would not have changed. This is the reason that this event in history has not been forgotten. The picture of Martin Luther King Jr. in the Birmingham jail and the life that he lived, continue to encourage me. It encourages me to live a life not for myself but for those around. It encourages me to live out my mother’s creed, one that was saturated in the crossfires of sacrifice and selflessness. This picture represents a lot about my views on fighting for equal rights and the importance of serving others. I am now in the process of defining my purpose in life. This picture and my mothers life helps me to pin point that purpose.

This was not one of the best years of my life but I am grateful for where God has brought me. And I have a lot to look forward to. I find my purpose in the actions of serving others. I find encouragement from the lives of all those who came before me and made the world better. I find refuge in poetry.

Here is a poem that continues to move me forward:

Buried in the dark it wasn’t that long ago his innocence vanished.

I saw him from heaven, walking in the woods kicking rocks like little boys do

Nine years old is the greatest age to live.

His parents were share-croppers, freed slaves that delt with the slavery days

and now lived their life in fear, tears from the past trying to be forgotten,

simultaneously attempting not to forget where they came from.

And the young boy only knows freedom,

he only understands the concept of flowers, mommy, daddy,

and the millions of trees that make up the woods behind his house.

He knows nothing of his culture and is not aware of his history.

So you cant blame the little boy for being so afraid when his eyes

were forced open by the cruel intentions of the world.

Because this little boy didn’t understand that his innocence was being stolen.

If we stay Buried in the dark it wont take long for our innocence to vanish,

innocence in America is being stolen.