"Suppose a brother or sister is without clothes or daily food. If one of you says to him, "Go, I wish you well; keep warm and well fed," but does nothing about his physical needs, what good is it?"
James 2:15-16
James 2:15-16
A few weeks ago, I was at the mall when I saw a friend who I had not seen for a long time. For her sake, i will not share all of the details of her situation, but I encountered her with eyes oozing with pain and leaving me with little appropriate response. As I think back to all the excruciating details she shared with me that day, I am ashamed at my selfishness and baffled at my reaction. I often throw up a prayer when I think of her, but often find myself at a deep loss for what exactly i should say.
As I laid in bed tonight, this dear, beautiful girl came to my mind and I began another meager prayer, when it just hit me how lazy and selfish I am. So I began to write a poem that may explain better.
I see you there
Round, glowing and scared
Your eyes are pleading
Yet somehow grateful
I was there, in some capacity
You retell your painful, ragged story
You attempt to exude some hope
But the conversation is shallow
We both are somewhere deeper
I stare at the floor
How do I make eye contact
I try to make small talk
Explaining my great, normal life
We are from different worlds
What can I say?
You have a child.
I have a dorm.
I try to pray for you
But it seems a lame excuse
What can I do?
Send you a card?
And so I search deep inside me
What keeps me from eye contact
Has our over-luxurious lives
Given the approriate distance
To justifiably avoid real life?
As I look at you
I feel so sheltered
I am a little girl
You are a mother
But we are teh same
I am you and you are me
All I have is a gift of grace
I can only cringe in the small share of your pain
I am sorry I allowed our conversation to be so shallow
I am sorry I looked at the floor
I am sorry I rushed off to live my life
I wished you well
And left you naked
Is it too late?
Has my shell of frear left you starving?
While I hid the bread behind my back?
I wish I have given you a hug
Embraced and hugged you
You said you were happy--even excited
But inwardly I greived your pain
But all I can say is I am sorry
I am sorry I left you behind
I want to go back and give you
The invitation to have all you need
But I ran
I shrugged you off and now you are gone
I fear the place to face you
To open up my soul and sob
So, my friend
Now I know what He meant
This journey is not smooth
I have built myself a box of pillows
And unfortunately, you just don't fit
So you'll be glad to know
I'm tearing up that box
Destroying all the pillows
I am sorry I would not get out
But thanks to you i'm getting closer
The hardest people for me to even look at without a deep sense of anguish are those suffering at their own hands. I hate it. The world I have grown up in is safe, clean, mess-free. I have been taught to flee from anything that may begin to be uncomfortable or wrong. But now I find myself encountering messy people and fleeing. And I look at Jesus, I encounter people who are striving to be like him in their generosity, their ability to look people in the eye and commit to be part of their pain, and it is as if I am being part of something totally foreign. I cannot comprehend it. I am stunned by my inability to move. Crippled.
My heart is dying, but my eyes are blank and my feet running. Last year when I went to CA, we went to visit the DreamCenter, a giant complex for the needy. We were supposed to be helping set up a cafe for homeless people and actually interacting with them when they came. I found it such a relief that we did not have time to stay until they came. Why? There were others who actually went to skid-row. Actually went and talked to people who's lives I cannot even imagine. Even the thought of that paralizes me.
This is a hard part in my soul. A place dried like play-dough that i need to be cracked. I long for an oozing softness that I am not finding.
Abba, I find myself silent now. Not much else to say. Except I need your healing. So deeply I am stunned, numbed by this wound. These things that I simply cannot face. I find myself faking it to obey you when the real me is hidden by this shell. This hard red, play-dough heart. I am afraid. I cannot even find the right diagnosis, but i know the symptoms and I need your healing.
As I laid in bed tonight, this dear, beautiful girl came to my mind and I began another meager prayer, when it just hit me how lazy and selfish I am. So I began to write a poem that may explain better.
I see you there
Round, glowing and scared
Your eyes are pleading
Yet somehow grateful
I was there, in some capacity
You retell your painful, ragged story
You attempt to exude some hope
But the conversation is shallow
We both are somewhere deeper
I stare at the floor
How do I make eye contact
I try to make small talk
Explaining my great, normal life
We are from different worlds
What can I say?
You have a child.
I have a dorm.
I try to pray for you
But it seems a lame excuse
What can I do?
Send you a card?
And so I search deep inside me
What keeps me from eye contact
Has our over-luxurious lives
Given the approriate distance
To justifiably avoid real life?
As I look at you
I feel so sheltered
I am a little girl
You are a mother
But we are teh same
I am you and you are me
All I have is a gift of grace
I can only cringe in the small share of your pain
I am sorry I allowed our conversation to be so shallow
I am sorry I looked at the floor
I am sorry I rushed off to live my life
I wished you well
And left you naked
Is it too late?
Has my shell of frear left you starving?
While I hid the bread behind my back?
I wish I have given you a hug
Embraced and hugged you
You said you were happy--even excited
But inwardly I greived your pain
But all I can say is I am sorry
I am sorry I left you behind
I want to go back and give you
The invitation to have all you need
But I ran
I shrugged you off and now you are gone
I fear the place to face you
To open up my soul and sob
So, my friend
Now I know what He meant
This journey is not smooth
I have built myself a box of pillows
And unfortunately, you just don't fit
So you'll be glad to know
I'm tearing up that box
Destroying all the pillows
I am sorry I would not get out
But thanks to you i'm getting closer
The hardest people for me to even look at without a deep sense of anguish are those suffering at their own hands. I hate it. The world I have grown up in is safe, clean, mess-free. I have been taught to flee from anything that may begin to be uncomfortable or wrong. But now I find myself encountering messy people and fleeing. And I look at Jesus, I encounter people who are striving to be like him in their generosity, their ability to look people in the eye and commit to be part of their pain, and it is as if I am being part of something totally foreign. I cannot comprehend it. I am stunned by my inability to move. Crippled.
My heart is dying, but my eyes are blank and my feet running. Last year when I went to CA, we went to visit the DreamCenter, a giant complex for the needy. We were supposed to be helping set up a cafe for homeless people and actually interacting with them when they came. I found it such a relief that we did not have time to stay until they came. Why? There were others who actually went to skid-row. Actually went and talked to people who's lives I cannot even imagine. Even the thought of that paralizes me.
This is a hard part in my soul. A place dried like play-dough that i need to be cracked. I long for an oozing softness that I am not finding.
Abba, I find myself silent now. Not much else to say. Except I need your healing. So deeply I am stunned, numbed by this wound. These things that I simply cannot face. I find myself faking it to obey you when the real me is hidden by this shell. This hard red, play-dough heart. I am afraid. I cannot even find the right diagnosis, but i know the symptoms and I need your healing.
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