“Requiem for The Greatest”
Dear Heavenly Father,
I don’t have all the answers for what it is to be a man of God during this life’s journey I find myself trudging. What it is to be a purposeful man. What is the reason for my having been gifted the chance to walk this earth.
I can’t imagine a young Cassius Clay had the answers either.
But if there’s something I’m rather sure of, it’s this: When a young man loves his mother, there’s bounty in his possibility. When he truly respects and honors his mother, a young man is set upon a course laden with prospect. Who knows, greatness may even await him.
Only you, Father, know of those mortals among us who are preordained to a special calling. Predestined a rare courage summoned by a morality that somewhere lives in each of us.
A child of God cannot be owned.
Did an as-yet-evolved Muhammad Ali know this transformative declaration before his peers? I mean, did you give it to him at birth? At the Olympics? Or did you reveal it to him at that moment when someone told him the Viet Cong was his supposed mortal enemy?
I wonder if his mother, the beautiful Mrs. Clay, had something to do with his internalizing such a profound, liberating, if not dangerous-for-the-times belief.
You, Father, yes, you, sent Muhammad out into a wicked, unforgiving world with nothing more than inhuman handspeed, a wondrous jab, the sweetest footwork, a lion’s heart, a yeoman’s work ethic, an awe-inspiring poetic mind . . . and an unwavering conviction for righting wrong.
I bet his mother had something to do with it.
You, Father, yes, you, Heavenly Father, give us so seemingly little yet expect us to go forth into the world and do the humanly impossible.
I was mad at you, man. Yes, livid that you took his voice away. That beautiful, fluid, poetic voice, that had no equal, you silenced. Upset I was.
Until I realized the voice meant little next to the stance. Next to the actions a man takes at the risk of losing it all, losing everything . . . except his dignity and his foundation.
I bet Mrs. Clay had something to do with that.
I’m sorry, Father. For doubting you. For questioning your providence. You didn’t abandon Muhammad. You and Mrs. Clay lent him to us . . . to reveal to us what is humanly possible, for the betterment of humanity.
Do me a favor, would you? Give Mrs. Clay a kiss on her forehead for me and tell her thank you for the gift of her son.
And, as I bow, place your hand on my head and imbue me with an ounce, just an ounce, of that which you gave to Muhammad Ali.
I’m in need of your providence, Father, your mercy. I’ll find my way. And I’ll do all I can to not let you down.
Forever in your debt,
A stinger, a shuffler, a butterfly in flight; The sweetest scientist, the Greatest Ever, our Ali, goodnight. -Rg2
© 2016 Romance by Rg2®