One Letter

 

A few months ago,

I saw a friend’s Facebook post about an interest meeting for a mission trip to Belize.

Something stirred within me and

I found myself at the meeting the next day.

After listening to the trip leader talk passionately about the work he’s been doing in the area for well over a decade,

And after asking quite a few questions to make sure the trip did not conflict with my theological beliefs,

I found myself agreeing to go on the trip.

 

We will be a team of four,

Traveling in July,

I will be the only female,

And we will be doing construction work,

Which is odd for me,

Because I’m not known for my construction prowess,

Although I have become pretty good with a hammer!

 

For months,

I didn’t hear anything about the trip.

I was becoming anxious knowing so little and wondering so much,

So I finally wrote my friend to check in and ask for information.

“Have you not been getting the team lead’s e-mails?” he asked.

“No.” I responded. “I’ve heard nothing.”

“Ahhhhhh,” he said. “No wonder you haven’t responded.”

 

The team lead had the wrong e-mail address.

 

Instead of dldeaton, he had dideaton.

 

A seemingly minor mistake,

But a huge error when it comes to vital communication.

 

My inbox now has a handful of messages from the team lead.

I know how much I owe ($1500) and I know how to make it through customs.

I have my medical form to fill out and I see which shots I need to take.

Now…

I wait…

And I pray…

And I ask you to pray with me, too.

For a great trip,

A safe trip,

Smooth travels,

Funding,

Safety on the work sight,

Good health,

No sickness or injury,

Good fellowship that transcends language barriers,

Comfortable weather,

Clean water,

Non-infectious mosquitoes,

And God’s love to be seen and felt through word, deed, and action.

 

Amen.

Pete The Plant and Other Scattered Thoughts

My thoughts this week have been very scattered. And so, too, this note will be. So bear with me, reader, as we journey through my mind and hopefully land on a few gems in what could be considered a jumble pile of rocks.

First, today is my grandmother’s 92nd birthday. Since I couldn’t be with her today, I sent her a card with one underlined word. G-mama always underlines special words in the cards she sends, so I wanted to do the same. There were only four words in the card, so I figured one was enough. Usually, we send each other a dollar or two in our cards. I chose not to send any money in today’s card, though, because I’m going to do what she tends to do for me on my birthday and give her one dollar for every year of her life. $92 dollars is a lot of dollars to send through the mail. So I will wait to give it to her when I visit her soon. Then hopefully I’ll get to drive her 1980’s Crown Victoria to the old lady hair salon and be with her when she uses part of her $92 for her weekly hair styling. I am grateful for G-mama. And I love her very much.

Second, I wrote last week about how I would be willing to hold my people’s sh*t if they needed it. And I would be. But I was reminded this week that that willingness is not necessarily mutual for many people in my life. Truth be known, I was reminded this week that I’m really not that important at all to some people—and the reminder hurt—and caused me to revisit feelings of loss and betrayal that are overwhelming and leave me feeling a bit lost and lonely and missing parts of a life that I used to know.

Third, I cried on the last day of school. And I realized that I’d finished my first year of teaching (part two) during the same week that I would have traveled to my organization’s annual meeting had I remained in my former job. Two years ago this week, I was in New Orleans riding pedi-cabs, laughing, and sharing delicious meals and beignets with my coworkers when we weren’t sitting in meetings. I led a workshop at the national meeting and spoke to nationally renowned leader and authors. My parents were in town for the meeting, too, so we hung out in a city far from home and I remember thinking that they’d driven a long way to be with me when it would be much closer to go to the annual meeting in years to come. I had no idea that that would be my last annual meeting and that my life would change so drastically in just three months. Fast forward two years and I’m standing in a decades-old gym in a school that is barely locally known, congratulating 5th graders that it took me most of the year to like, and I am crying. I am crying because I am proud of my students, and I am crying because I am certain that I am doing more missions now than I did in my three years of full-time vocational ministry. I am certain that I am exactly where I need to be…and yet…I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss being with my former staff at their annual meeting.

Fourth, Bullet stinks. When I got home from work yesterday, he was dirty and wet from running through a storm to get to the house, so I washed him in my tub, and he got mad at me, and he’s now soft and fluffy, and he was super cute when he fell asleep in my lap during a thunderstorm last night, but he still stinks. Yet I love him so much. And I’m thankful that he’s been my little alarm clock this week—waking me up before 6 each morning to play—reminding me that there is joy and excitement in each new day.

Fifth, I brought Pete the Plant home from work today. He’ll stay here for the summer. I spoke at a church a few years ago and my thank you gift was Pete the Plant. He stayed in my office at my former job. He moved home with me when I didn’t have a job. Then he moved to school with me when I finally got my classroom set up. I love Pete. He adds life and warmth to spaces that otherwise could feel cold.

Actually. I want to be like Pete.

I want to add life and warmth to spaces that otherwise could feel cold…
to dirty dog coats and gyms and pedi-cabs and birthday cards…
to human hearts and minds and bodies and souls…
even when they aren’t willing to hold my sh*t…
especially when they’ve been around a long time and are 92 years old.

I Don't Know About You, But I Think We Should Show Them

My pastor said something on Sunday that made me think of an image of Jesus that I hadn’t considered in a long time:

Jesus, on the cross—beaten, bloody, and bruised;
Me, kneeling beneath the cross—looking into Jesus’ eyes.
Jesus, on the cross—beckoning me to join him;
Me, climbing up the cross—looking into the eyes of love.
Jesus, on the cross—arms open wide;
Me, embracing Jesus—his broken body folding into mine.

I wrote a song inspired by this image when I was in college. I opened my computer today to see if I’d typed up the song, but I hadn’t. In the process of looking, though, I found another song that I hadn’t considered in a long time. I wrote this song after being introduced not to moving images of Jesus’ compassion but to sad images of a wounded child. Little did I know that that introduction to childhood trauma would be only the first of countless stories that would come to break my heart over the years.

I updated that song today…and the poem that follows means more now than ever.

No child should have to:
know all she knows,
see all she sees,
hurt all she hurts,
be all she is.

No child should have to:
face life alone,
doubt her next meal will come,
feel she’s not good enough,
believe who is she is, is wrong.

No child should have to:
joke to hide all the pain inside,
think she's weak if she cries,
fear the touch of another’s hand,
hear words that wound and damn.

But so many do.

Just look into eyes: shame.
Just listen to voices: humiliation.
Just look at shoulders: heartache.

If only they knew and believed in who they are.

If only they knew they are loved as they are:
Beautifully broken, resilient children of God,
Created and able to grow by the creativity of God,
Redeemed and made new by the grace of God…

Something Is Wrong Here

I have two athletic training friends. Both are named Amy. One Amy lives and works in the NC mountains. The other Amy lives and works in Missouri. On Saturday morning, I received the following message from Missouri:

I’m at a wrestling tournament and there’s a little boy that just knocked his knee on the floor and it scared him and now his dad is in the hallway fussing at him and told him he cried like a girl and it was embarrassing. He keeps telling him he’s shameful and that he has better things to do than waste his time on him crying. If only he know how long that kid is going to remember those words . I don’t know who has made society think it’s not okay for boys and men to cry and show emotion. It’s a God-given emotion and sometimes just has to happen. These are little boys. They are wrestling for fun right now…

Later that day, I went to one of my nephew’s basketball games and watched as one of the coaches from the opposing team acted as if the boys were playing professional ball. He argued with the referees, directed mean comments at my nephew’s coach, got angry when his son messed up, and was very unhappy when his team lost. His son acted the same way—getting overly mad at himself when things didn’t go his way…

A few weeks ago, a friend shared a story about finding herself surrounded by a fight at her daughter’s basketball game. One parent commented on another parent’s language so another parent decided to physically attack…

I don’t know about you, but something is wrong here.

I’m not exactly sure how to rectify what’s gone wrong.

Society has changed too much to go back to the days of neighborhood ball on hand-painted goals.

But I do know that something needs to change and that
All the little boys who are knocked down and scared,
Being fussed at by dads holding unrealistic expectations, and that
All the little boys who are stifling their tears,
Being poisoned by shame that will plague them for life, and that
All the grown men who are yelling in anger,
Trying to make their sons into the image they will never be, and that
All the grown women who are shouting in frustration,
Hurling harsh words meant to cut others down, are
Loved, they are loved, they are worthy to be
Loved, and it is up to you and
up to me to somehow tell them so.

God. Help us. Please.
Amen.

In A Year

I’ve been collecting Coke Rewards points for some time now. Friends and family members have helped in the collection and enabled me to enter various sweepstakes, donate points to two schools, purchase a travel bakery set that I was able to give to a friend, and buy a garden set that I used today.

When the garden set arrived, I was living in South Carolina. While working for SC WMU, I tried to develop a green thumb under the tutelage of one of my coworkers and took responsibility for the office plants. I have a vivid memory of taking my garden set to work and repotting and pruning many of our plants. I remember my excitement as one of the dying plants came back to life in the weeks that followed, and as I pruned some flowers in the backyard today, I found myself wondering about that plant. Is it still alive? Or did it finally stop living and wander to plant heaven?

So much can change in a year.

Last year at this time, restless though I was, I was filling my calendar for the 2012/2013 church year. I was planning to drive across the state of SC to speak about missions and to educate about issues of human exploitation. I was finalizing details for a large student event and laying the foundation to mentor three teenage girls. I was editing the statewide newsletter, managing Facebook pages, and envisioning ways to make communication stronger. We had just finished posting the summer camp prayer guide and I was starting to write another prayer guide that would carry us through the year.

Then life pushed me into the unknown and God did God’s own pruning--not with Coke Rewards points garden tools on office plants but with the sword of the Spirit, the shield of faith, the gospel of peace, the belt of truth, breastplate of righteousness, and the helmet of salvation in my life.

One year later, instead of educating about human exploitation, I am working on the front lines of fighting it. Instead of laying foundations to mentor three teenage girls, I am laying foundations to mentor over 700 kindergarten through 5th grade students. And instead of writing a prayer guide for missions, I am living those prayers every day. Yet still, I am being led to write…and I am envisioning ways to make communication stronger.

In coming days, I’d like to write a prayer guide for the public school year. I don’t envision writing a different request for every day of the year but I do hope to write a prayer for each day of the week. If you have a request you would like for me to work into the prayers, please let me know. I will do my best to reflect your heart as well. This guide won’t be sent in newsletter form to 12,000 people across the state of SC, but, somehow, I believe it will make a difference.

After all, a lot can change in a year.

Images from Camp

Four teenagers walking down the road carrying buckets to gather water. The house we were working on had no running water. We were working in a neighborhood that is falling into disrepair as residents are getting older and the town is channeling money elsewhere.

An 82-year-old woman sweeping grass off of her sidewalk, allowing me to finish sweeping for her as she told me how grateful she was for our presence across the street. Talking with her inspired a sidewalk cleaning project that rallied our work crew and gave them a sense of purpose and accomplishment. The grass in front of the house at which we were working had completely covered the sidewalk. In fact, the soil had built up to the point that it was over a foot deep in front of the steps. When we left, the sidewalk was clean and plans had been made for the yard-keeper at the abandoned house two houses over was making plans to clear the sidewalk in front of that house as well.

A group of white teenagers gathering around a middle-aged African American woman, praying with and for her in an effort to release her from the hoarding tendencies that had almost gotten her house condemned and receiving a blessing from her because of the positive path they were choosing. This prayer occurred on Friday, just before we packed up and moved out, and it blessed everyone involved, including our homeowner’s husband who caught my eye and gave me a grateful thumbs-up and nod of affirmation.

The “body of Christ” being shared with each participant by a beautifully humble staff member who radiated peace and joy through her smile and intentional eye contact. Most persons didn’t look at her as she said, “The body of Christ broken for you,” yet she still saw each person and served them the “bread of life.” I imagined her saying a prayer for each person as he/she approached, and I realized that what was happening in front of me was a depiction of what often happens in ministry: we serve yet we are often not seen and sometimes we are even ignored; yet still, we serve, praying that love of Christ will shine through us. The whole experience moved me to tears.

Jesus. 12-years-old. At the temple. Fully alive. Fully himself. Finding his call. Going home. Growing up. Jesus went home to grow up.

Seeing the words “everyone’s welcome here, no one has to hide” projected onto the screen. Hearing the words being sung. Feeling tears streaming down my face as I realized that the words we were singing were words I want to believe but words that haven’t always been shown to me. Everyone is welcome at God’s table. Now it’s up to us, the church, to show it.

In Solidarity With Love

Sitting on the couch, stinky white dog beside me, mismatched black socks warming my feet, brown shorts and black t-shirt demonstrating an outfit the fashion police would arrest, I must jot down the things that I learned or pondered during my first on-call at the hospital on Wednesday:

1) The residents and Spiritual Care staff at the hospital are wonderful. They willingly and graciously helped me through the daytime portion of my duty, patiently guiding and mentoring me through a vast field of ignorance. To see them using their gifts and passions to minister not only to patients and family members but also to me was a humbling and inspiring experience.

Each day when I worked for SC WMU, we’d pray for missionaries who had birthdays on that day. We’d call the International and North American Missionaries by name but we would lump the chaplains and volunteers together by category because there are so many chaplains and volunteers sharing Christ’s love. Yesterday, that prayer for chaplains and volunteers took on new meaning as I observed and experienced firsthand the peace-giving work of the chaplain. I’m going to try to start praying for the chaplains that I know by name every day, and I’m going to start with the wonderful people that I’m working with now.

2) It is super important to have at least one or two emergency contact numbers memorized! Thanks to the speed dial on my cell phone, I don’t know many telephone numbers at all. But. If I’m ever in a trauma situation where I can speak and the chaplain asks me if there is anyone that I want them to call for me then I need to know the number. You do, too. Contrary to popular opinion, the wallet, purse, and/or phone don’t always stay with you when you enter the Emergency Department.

3) Badge holders with retractable elastic come in very handy when the name tag includes cheat sheets of vital information. While emergency contact numbers should be memorized, all information in the world shouldn’t…especially when it can be easily accessed via said badge.

4) Although I’m not a fan of wearing them myself, I think that everyone should wear a name tag. Names are important. Being called by name is important. Looking someone in the eye and calling him/her by name instills a sense of dignity that too often gets lost. It also provides incentive not to act out or do anything that would shame a person’s name. I’m terrible with names. I want to get better at remembering them. In the meantime, I’ll start lobbying for embracing the name tag.

5) I don’t want to eat barbeque or a salad in the middle of the night. The idea of heavy dinner food and/or a salad in the wee hours of the morning feels wrong to me. Yet. I think it’s great that the hospital cafeteria serves these foods to those who otherwise wouldn’t get them because they are sleeping during the day so they can work at night.

6) It’s okay to cry. To weep actually.

[Selah]

7) Sometimes permission can set us free. I went into yesterday terrified of doing something wrong. My old script of needing to perfect—to please everyone—to do the “right” thing—had been screaming at me for two weeks, trying to convince me that I was going to fail with chaplaincy. After shadowing the residents and talking to my supervisor, however, I was able to soften that loud voice and remember what I know to be true: no one is perfect, I am my own worst enemy, and life is about much more than right or wrong. My supervisor told me that she trusted me—that I wouldn’t have been accepted into the program if she didn’t think I could do it. She encouraged me to trust my gut and to minister out of my gifts and abilities—because they are vast. The residents showed me that it’s okay to get turned around in the hospital, that I didn’t need to panic when I hear the pager go off, that it’s okay to touch people on the shoulder, that it’s okay to laugh, that it’s okay to ask questions, that it’s essential to remain hydrated. One resident told me that I had a naturally calming presence and a patient said the exact same thing at 2am.

[Selah]

For yesterday’s spiritual care office devotion, we read Psalm 46 and focused on verse 10: “Be still and know that I am God.” As we sat together in the holy and sacred silence that is God, I breathed in the breath of life that is the Spirit and prayed to represent the love and peace that are Christ.

I made it through my first on-call because those around me must have prayed the same thing.

[Selah]

I will rest now. I can barely keep my eyes open. The dog, my mismatched socks, and my lovely outfit are ready to rest, too…and fall asleep thanking God for the communion of saints and the prayers of a people standing in solidarity with Love.

The Little Cardboard Sign

The summer after my junior year of college, I had the privilege of visiting the Blue Bird Café in Nashville, TN. While I was there, either Allen Shamblin or Steve Seskin (I can’t remember which) debuted their song, “Don’t Laugh At Me.” When I first heard the song, it moved me to tears. To this day, I find it very powerful. The concept of each of us being a person of dignity and worth is a concept that I stand on, yet how easy is it to forget this fact.

One of my favorite verses of, “Don’t Laugh At Me,” says:

“I lost my wife and little boy when
Someone cross that yellow line
The day we laid them in the ground
Is the day I lost my mind
And right now I'm down to holdin'
This little cardboard sign...so…”

Every time I see a homeless person now, I think of these words and remember that I don’t know his/her story and that underneath the dirt, grime, and cardboard sign, there is a person just like me.

And so…after suggesting the idea on both the Acteens and SC WMU Student Facebook pages (one year apart) and feeling very convicted that I had not taken my own advice, I finally purchased the supplies for and made five bags of food to keep in my car so that I’d have something more than random change to give the homeless men and women whom I see standing by the street.

As I walked the aisles of the grocery store, I asked myself what I would like to have if I did not have a home. Because I don’t know when I’ll give away the bags, I couldn’t fill them with perishable items, items that would melt, or items that couldn’t easily be opened, so that limited my options…yet I tried to find things that I might want. I must admit that I’ve never had potted meat or sardines but I knew they would last, so I bought those. I bought Vienna sausages, beans and weenies, green beans, fruit cocktail, granola bars, raisins, and juice boxes. I thought something sweet might be good, so I bought peppermint and Starbursts and threw in those little flosser things with peppermint flavor. Finally, I bought plastic ware, rolls of paper towels, and rolls of toilet paper. I figured that eating can be messy…and I know that I don’t like for my hands to be dirty when I eat.

As I purchased those supplies on Tuesday night and placed them in reusable shopping bags—I thought a reusable bag might come in handy—I prayed for the people who will receive them and filled the bags with blessings of God’s love. I also filled them with a separate Ziploc bag stuffed with personal hygiene items because I’m so fortunate to have them lying around. I prayed that for at least in that one moment when I hand him the bag, the homeless man whom I will call sir will feel as if someone has seen him and deemed him worthy of the time and effort that it took to make the bag.

We’re all in this world together, you know…and we all deserve to be seen and respected…because we really are all the same in God’s eyes…

A Family Thing

I knew that they collected Breyer Horses, but I didn’t really know what that meant or have any clue how big the collection was until last night. Hundreds of horses were placed all around the house—all three daughters’ bedrooms were full to overflowing and the dad’s office was evidently the same. Neatly arranged and carefully taken care of, the Breyer Horse collection that I saw at the Legendre house looked like something you’d see in a collectible store. I didn’t dream about Breyer Horses last night, but I’m surprised!

I had the privilege of helping with a commissioning service at Pleasant Hill Baptist Church last night. [In case you’re wondering, Pleasant Hill is in the middle of nowhere, but it’s a lovely church outside of Hemingway, SC.] I was asked to attend the service by one of my former SC WMU Youth Panelists, Sarah. She told me that she and her sister Elizabeth, also a former panelist, were being commissioned for a full summer of summer missions work and that her mom, Johnna, was being commissioned as well. What I didn’t realize was that her other sister, Hannah, also a former panelist, was being commissioned for a week-long missions trip with her college and that her WMU Director was on the program, too!

As I sat on the Legendre family pew and listened to each of the girls, their mom, and the WMU director—who, incidentally, has had a huge impact on their lives—speak about the work they would be doing this summer, I couldn’t help but feel honored to be there. It was a beautifully humbling experience to be able to show my support to the girls and stand with church members and Johnna’s dad in unity and prayer. It was also a funny experience to hear the entire Legendre family say “Amen” after the special music with the exact same timing and voice inflection!

On Saturday, I spoke at a Mother/Daughter banquet that hosted women from four generations. I spoke to 4-year-olds and 84-year-olds and various ages in between. I spoke of love and Christ and missions and giftedness and not being alone and I watched as God’s spirit moved among generation to generation.

This faith we hold…it’s a family thing. True. We must individually choose faith for ourselves and sometimes people choose to walk away. One of the women at the Mother/Daughter banquet came to the banquet alone. Her son has refused to speak to her for years and will have nothing to do with the faith in which he was raised. Yet the woman came. And she ate with and had her picture made with a young lady who “adopted” her as mom for the day.

I don’t know about you, but I’m grateful for this family of faith—for those who have gone before me like my G-Daddy who died 23 years ago today but who made an impact on so many lives—for those who walk beside me now, for those who will walk beside me in the future, and for those who will continue walking long after I’m gone. I don’t know about you, but I’m grateful that I’m not alone on this journey.

At the end of the service last night, Pastor Jim, the girls’ dad, asked me to say the benediction. I remembered that the benedictions that speak the most to me are the ones that my dad takes straight out of scripture. I’ve always loved how he blesses and charges the congregation as he walks down the aisle with his hands raised upward, in an open, sending forth posture. I didn’t walk down the aisle as I spoke last night, but I did say raise my hands and say this:

I thank my God every time I remember you. In all my prayers for all of you, I always pray with joy because of your partnership in the gospel from the first day until now, being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus. And this is my prayer: that your love may abound more and more in knowledge and depth of insight, so that you may be able to discern what is best and may be pure and blameless for the day of Christ, filled with the fruit of righteousness that comes through Jesus Christ—to the glory and praise of God. May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit. And may God himself, the God of peace, sanctify you through and through. May your whole spirit, soul and body be kept blameless at the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ. The one who calls you is faithful, and he will do it.
Amen.

The Fear of Being Seen

When I was 10 years old, my dad went to Ecuador with his Army Reserves Unit. I don’t remember much about the trip except that I got to ride on the riding lawn mower with the man who cut our grass and that dad brought me a ring from Ecuador that I still sometimes wear.

On Sunday morning, Dad referenced this trip in his sermon. He said that he was so anxious about leaving the family behind that he couldn’t even tell us bye. He said that he left in the middle of the night while we were sleeping so that we wouldn’t see him cry. The true irony of that last statement is that my dad now cries at the drop of a hat!

I don’t know why my dad didn’t want us to see him cry back then. I don’t know if it’s because he’s a man and men aren’t supposed to cry or if there was some other reason that compelled him to leave in the middle of the night. But I do know this: he was full of anxiety as he left for his trip. He was full of sadness for having to say goodbye—wondering if that goodbye would be his last. He was full of grief for the time that he would be away and the events in our lives that he would miss.

Anxiety. Sadness. Grief. Worry. Concern. Doubt. Hurt. Regret. Anger. Sadness. These are emotions that we all feel—some of us more than others—yet they’re emotions that we often don’t want others to see—especially in the church. Why is this? Why do we feel that we must hide so much?

I’ve recently talked with individuals—Christian individuals with a genuine desire to love and serve God—who are:

• struggling with the aftershock of abortion;
• attempting to overcome the addiction of pornography;
• dealing with the repercussions of an affair;
• grieving from being fired from a job for misconduct;
• embarrassed about admitting that she’s an ordained Baptist minister not because she’s embarrassed by her faith but because she’s embarrassed by the reputation that Christians have of being closed minded and judgmental and because she doesn’t want her non-Christian friends to build a wall of protection around their souls;
• healing from being raped; trying to survive in an abusive relationship;
• trying to pretend she’s okay after her dad died;
• trying to figure out how to apply for bankruptcy;
• trying to figure out where to go next after he senses a change in call;
• wondering about the existence and reality of hell;
• wrestling through thoughts of a loving God sending Jews from the Holocaust to hell;
• figuring out how to end a ministry well;
• coming to terms with really harsh, negative thoughts and feelings in a friendship;
• feeling completely alone in this world;
• questioning the meaning of life;
• feeling overwhelmed by the enormity of her job and so afraid of not being a good leader that she has migraines and ulcers and constantly lives in fear;
• realizing that she hates religion and simply wants a relationship with God—who is proclaimed as love but portrayed as a picture completely different;
• wondering how he’s supposed to live a life of faith in the world when his church friends judge him for spending time with friends who don’t live the life approved by the church;
• trying to find the courage to finally say that they do not feel called to teach youth Sunday School or VBS even though there’s no one else in the church to do it;
• trying to find the words to speak her truth to her family when she fears that her family will disown her for not holding “traditional American values”;
• afraid to admit that she voted for Obama and that she doesn’t think it’s his fault that our country is struggling;
• battling sickness and disease;
• wanting to hash out a healthy view of sexuality and sexual ethics but having no one to talk to;
• fighting depression;

All while pretending that everything is okay. All while holding it together and only letting it out late at night (if at all) so that no one sees them cry—so that no one knows their pain…

I’m crying as I write this today. I’m crying behind a closed door because I don’t want my coworkers to see. My boss came in earlier. I was wiping a tear from my eye and was embarrassed that she had caught me in the act. But why? Why was I embarrassed? Why is it bad that I hurt for the hurts of this world? Why is it bad that I feel my heart breaking with what also breaks the heart of God?

In the front of WMU’s Associational Leadership Tool, we read:

Luke recorded the mission that Jesus identified as his mission: “The Spirit of the Lord is on me, because he has anointed me to preach good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners and recovery of sight for the blind, to release the oppressed, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor” (Juke 4:18-19).

Jesus proclaimed the Kingdom of God and gave witness to the redemptive acts of God. He taught his disciples to do likewise, and they saw him practice this as he went from place to place. They saw Jesus teach the people, forgive their sins, and heal their diseases and sicknesses.

I don’t know about you. But to me, today, freedom for the prisoners is freedom from the fear of being seen.

On Monday I wrote that Jesus saw them. And Jesus loved them. So I’m thinking that maybe we should do the same. I’m thinking that maybe we should start living lives that give people the space to be seen. I’m thinking that maybe we should live lives that allow speaking truth—however scary and ugly it is—to be the vehicle by which the oppressed (and isn’t that all of us) are released. And I’m thinking that maybe we should spend more time giving witness to the redemptive acts of God rather than the damning acts of humankind.

My dad told me last night that we Deatons don’t say goodbye very easily—that we hold on tightly to people and don’t quickly let go. He’s right. We do hold on. And goodbyes are difficult. Which I suppose is why he didn’t tell me bye when I called last night. Instead he said I love you. He left for a mission trip to Armenia this morning. But this time he left wearing his emotions on his sleeve. This time he left being seen…