On one of the days I was in Atlanta, I made a pilgrimage to the Martin Luther King Memorial site. The subway left me in a rundown neighborhood, left over from better days.
"Where...?" I had to ask.
Someone pointed up the hill to a street that should lead me there. On the way I passed a block-long line of people waiting for the Salvation Army building to open. Desolation hung out on every street corner. I got to the street; but no sign named it, or gave me a clue it was the way. Hoping it was the correct road, I turned and walked past crumbling buildings and carved up pavement. A light rain started to fall. With no umbrella or raincoat, my thoughts nagged at me to turn back. I wandered; first right, then left, but still no sign of the site. All the street signs had been torn down. I spied a man in front of a church.
"Where...?" I asked again.
"Up 3 or 4 blocks..." he said. The rain now pounded at my body and soul. Such a welcome- the thought fogged in my brain; like a coffin, the scenes surrounded me.

This was a mistake; I may have actually said it out loud...

The cold illumination of the neon sign from Ebeneezer Baptist Church guarded the entrance to the deserted memorial grounds. Dr. Kingıs tomb is plain white marble, surrounded by a peaceful reflecting pool. I walked up the narrow side and read the inscription: "Free at last, free at last. Thank God Almighty Iım free at last."
"Whoa!" my reins, sinew jerked hard with chills. This alone dwarfed the harrowing walk to see it.

I entered the visitor center. Immediately, first, and only, white people I'd seen all morning, engulfed me; most of them German tourists! Strange. But the compelling photos on the walls and the things I saw in the display cases pulled me away from them. There was a simple, very small suitcase Dr. King carried when he travelled- he travelled light: it was about the size of a briefcase and contained one dress shirt, a pair of pajamas, a book, and file folders containing speeches. I thought about my own suitcase and the things it contained. Another case protected his well-worn Bible, and a heavily underlined book by Ghandi. The final case held a portion of a handwritten speech.
"No greater tragedy can befall a people than to be circumscribed to the dark chambers of pessimism. Pessimism is a chronic disease that dries up the red corpuscles of hope and slows down the steady heartbeat of positive action."

These simple words rang clarion to me. I could almost hear him, standing there next to me, the passion of conviction and truth ringing from his mouth.

I walked outside. The rain splattered my face, then I noticed the eternal flame. I must have walked by it on my way in, but I missed it; I didn't see it. I lingered under a covered corridor, alone. But the moment, so full, and the neighborhood, so battle-worn, demanded a response from my soul. So there, in the rain, I sang aloud a U2 song, aptly named MLK. When i finished, I noticed a lone man, open umbrella crooked under his arm, put his hands together in silent prayer near the tomb. This was indeed a holy place. As I left the grounds the rain stopped and the skies opened up to show blue. The sun shone on for the rest of the day.

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