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Saints and Martyrs ˜ 299
Until you return to the ground,
For out of it you were taken;
You are dust
And to dust you shall return.
—Genesis 3:19
The body hunt was unusually simple. Kazy and Susan did the phone work.
The DeKalb County medical examiner was glad to help us claim the body after
the state of complete dereliction had been established. Maybe the money we
saved the county can be put toward DeKalb’s Grady pharmacy fund. Who
knows
After a lengthy discussion within our little household of faith, we decided
on cremation and a funeral service in conjunction with our noonday meal for
hungry folk. Adolphus asked the St. Vincent de Paul Society to help us with the
costs. They often have come to our aid with caskets for our friends who have perished
on the streets or who have been immolated for the god of retributive justice.
With love and pastoral care, St. Vincent opened wide his hand, a full measure
sifted between his thumb and forefinger.
On Friday, August 6, I signed the necessary papers. The National Cremation
Society then picked him up from the county morgue. Sometime on Saturday,
S. A. Williams was burned to dust and ashes. Steven Beals and Rebecca Rose
were gracious every step of the way. Dick Rustay went to the Third World Mennonite
shop in our neighborhood—Ten Thousand Villages—and purchased a
beautiful Vietnamese vase for S. A., which now sits beside Willie Dee Wimberly’s
memorial on our mantelpiece. On Wednesday afternoon, after serving 157
folk minus one in the soup kitchen, Dick picked up S. A. and brought him
home in a cylindrical box.
On Friday the thirteenth, Joe B. Hinds and Sandra had their letter to the
editor published in the local paper, and, on the following Monday, after much
work and some negotiation, Joe got a death notice in the newspaper for $39.60.
That same morning, August 16, Adolphus left for vacation; that night our partner
vanished.
The funeral was set for Wednesday at 11 a.m. in our backyard with a prodigious
barbecue and watermelon feast to follow. One hundred fifty of us gathered
for worship and remembrance. Murphy and Elizabeth led us in singing C. M.
Sherman’s favorite hymn, “Pass Me Not, O Gentle Savior.” We prayed, wept,
and shared stories of S. A., mixed with Ralph reading the Twenty-third Psalm,
and Kazy and Eric reading from Romans and Revelation. Our hearts panged
when we sang “Wayfaring Stranger” amid the tales of S. A. wandering the streets
and alleyways. Dick then led us in the spreading of S. A.’s ashes. Many of us
came to Dick from our hands-held circle, filled our cupped hands with S. A.
Williams, and held his dust as though he were an injured baby bird. We took