Since last fall Troy’s gotten to know some men on death row here in Arkansas, putting their writing into a script and even reading their words to them in person. Three of these men were scheduled with five others to be executed over a period of two weeks beginning the day after Easter. Feeling numb and powerless under these daily headlines, Troy began spending his evenings preparing a final script for the inmates from their most recent writing. After a few hours of typing up the words each night, Troy would end his day by joining me for a 30 minute podcast on the whereabouts of America’s missing workout darling Richard Simmons. Sometimes you just have to give your heart a break.

For the past two weeks Troy’s lunches have been spent standing silently in peaceful protest at the court house and his evenings at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church vigils, silently praying and waiting with other mercy-minded friends. One of the nights ended in celebration, as both men received a stay on their executions at the last minute.  Two of the nights ended in deep sorrow.  The last of these men was Death Row Stories’ very own Kenneth Williams, whose daughter and granddaughter were flown out by one of his victim’s family to say goodbye to him the day before. Anne Lamott writes, “I’m not sure I even recognize the ever-presence of mercy anymore, the divine and the human: the messy, crippled, transforming, heartbreaking, lovely, devastating presence of mercy. But I have come to believe that I am starving to death for it, and my world is, too.”

This being spring in the semi-south, we’ve had some incredible thunderstorms lately, like nothing I’ve ever experienced actually. On Easter Sunday the sermon ended with a thunder clap like God was giving a stamp of approval on the message of inclusion and hope, resulting in laughter-applause from the heart-heavy congregation. Two weeks and four executions later, today we’re experiencing darkness, thunder, lightening and heavy rain that feels exactly like God-sobs over Arkansas.

Yesterday I ran an errand before work and saw a friend who asked how I was.  I took a moment and told her I wasn’t doing that great actually. She knew what I meant immediately. We stood holding our baskets for a few minutes talking about our similar stories: we’re both transplants to Fayetteville from other great cities, we each have one son and wonder how they’re taking all this news, we both usually love this place but are now feeling ashamed of our governor, our president, and so many men whose decisions affect our society’s most marginalized people in devastating ways. She’s been listening to Maya Angelou read “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings” and I’ve been reading Anne Lamott’s “Hallelujah Anyway” to get through these dark times. By the time my olives were handed to me by the funky guy across the deli counter, I smiled at my friend, thankful to have actually answered her question.