FROM THE KITCHEN TABLE, JANUARY, 2026, YAKIMA, WASHINGTON--TO THE WASHINGTON CATHEDRAL, 31 MARCH 1968--LETTER TO PASTOR MARTIN LUTHER KING, JR.

 

FROM THE KITCHEN TABLE, JANUARY, 2026

YAKIMA, WASHINGTON—TO THE WASHINGTON CATHEDRAL,

31 MARCH 1968—LETTER TO PASTOR MARTIN LUTHER KING, JR.

             PART II

I. After the Sermon

You’re greeting the congregation, Dr. King,

taking our hands as we file out,

and we’re slow go not letting go of your hand.

This is your last public sermon

and this time we get it.

You’ve just stepped down

from the Canterbury Pulpit

Cathedral Church of St. Peter & St. Paul,

commonly known as Washington Cathedral.

March 31, 1968.

           ●

15 March 2026

II. Dear Pastor King,

I’m going to call you pastor, Dr. King.

That’s what you are for me, Pastor King, my pastor,

and I’m coming from the pew. I, know, too,

your titles, and the epithets that come with you,

and I’m still inflated by it all, from the Canterbury Pulpit

to your place at the right hand of God.

We’re getting ready for your birthday.

I’m walking before breakfast listening with hearing aids.

I’m 80, and no longer need to embellish. You’re telling us

about Rip Van Winkel, how he slept for 20 years,

sleeping right through a revolution.

King George III. We have other worries now--

Yakima, Central Washington State, it’s cold, and the ink won’t run

in my pen. I take notes on the recipe card while walking. For the Pecan Pie

I made for your birthday.

On this day, end of March, 1968,

I’m 22 years old, 85^th Evac Hospital, Qui Nhon, Viet Nam

during the Battle of Tet begun on New Year’s lasting until

Johnson finally stopped the bombing. I’ll pick up there.

It’s my job to get our guys off choppers and onto planes

and out of the country to Japan, Philippines, or, closer to you

in D.C. at Walter Reed—Ft. Sam Houston for burned bodies.

I can relate to what you say about just to have crumbs,

about the appalling silence and indifference of good people.

I didn’t hear it then. I did, but. It wasn’t exactly chronological.

I had a teacher in high school, 1963, who told us, broke your story--

but I didn’t know, then, you wrote that Letter from Birmingham Jail,

then, 16 April 1963. No, I didn’t. Then, that, that I didn’t know.

When I did know, later, I put your Letter from Birmingham

into my New Testament. It’s right there next to Paul’s letters.

But in March 1968, I’m at the 85^th Evac, a GI.

And I’m bunkered with medics and we’re black and white,

and we’re brothers, as you say from The Canterbury Pulpit,

...standing in brutal solidarity...young black men

and young white men, fighting and killing

in brutal soldarity, that is us.

And in a few days,

when you are murdered,

that’s where we are, and that’s where I am.

And when you are killed, GI’s in Vietnam,

we’re all wondering what just happened. You say,

Dante couldn’t imagine it. We’re using other words,

talking in GI. And writing home. Writing home.

Brothers in Black and White. And that’s how

I remember those days—and Bobby Kennedy’s

still alive. No confusion there. “They send us

to Vietnam, and when we’re done here, they’re

going to send us back to the United States.”

What I won’t know for years,

Dr. King—I do slip in and out of those titles,

is that this is what’s in my letters. We’re together

in that hospital, one in bunkered solidarity, telling

this cruel joke on ourselves. “That’s what’s going

to happen.” It’s in my letters to Karen. When I found

those letters she saved, I felt redeemed. You say

in that last sermon...and when they come home

they can’t hardly live on the same block together.

Being part of the cruel joke is part of our blessing.

Dr. King, what I want to tell you

in this letter is this. We’re in the same pew.

We’re in the same block, too. Always have been.

It hasn’t been like this for everybody,

but that’s how it is here, with me, with us.

III. HOLDING ON TO PASTOR MARTIN’S HAND

I’ve been holding onto this one over 50 years, Pastor Martin.

I’m conscious of the man beside me, I am,

but this time, not my time, but we’ve been in line

a long time. I’m talking to you in a letter

and I’ve got grand-kids, grown now,

and I’m talking to them through you,

in your words, through that pulpit over time,

and then there’s my notes from what you

said on that toilet paper from Birmingham Jail.

I’m just coming to that,

They can hear that direct from me.

Dr. King.

Yes. That sermon.

That’s life.

Life in that sermon

that’s not going away never.

Jim Bodeen

15 January 2026