M and A and I spent the first morning of 2006, yesterday, at an Interfaith Celebration on the promenade of the Superdome. This walkway had been packed to the edges with suffering; you could still see debris mashed into the ground, and the broken windows of the skyscrapers next to the dome are filled in with cardboard and plywood. A fitting site, four months later, for blacks and whites to stand and sing, and pray for help. The day was lovely, with mild temperatures and a light breeze. All religions were represented, and the Lt. Gov., Gov., and Mayor were there - Andrew said, "Mom, this is why I don't like coming to these things." True. But he sat and listened. "Sit straight," I said, because media was all over the place, shooting cutaways in the crowd of 100.

We both sat straighter - spellbound - when Irvin Mayfield, the brilliant jazz trumpeter (they used to call him Baby Wynton) whose father drowned in his house, started to play. Here is an article written before his father's death was confirmed. Irvin played "a tune my father brought to me when I first started playing my trumpet: A Closer Walk With Thee." Traditionally performed during the dirge portion of jazz funerals. This would be the last time Mayfield would play this piece, and we were grateful, tearful, blessed, to be there to hear it.

The title of this post come from words spoken by The Rev. Debra Morton, co-pastor of Greater St. Stephen Full Gospel Baptist Church, who recited a passage from the first book of Samuel about the trouble David had in restoring his burned city, and how the people wanted him stoned.