Band-Aids

I feel so overwhelmed, so small, so inconsequential when it comes to the issue of justice for the oppressed. Just this past weekend I attended a Christian anti-human trafficking conference where I learned that the average cost for a human slave is only $90, visited Church Under the Bridge in Waco, Texas where I witnessed the profound physical need in our own communities, and finished reading One Thousand Sisters which details the atrocities against humanity currently occurring in the Democratic Republic of Congo and the surrounding African nations.

Evil abounds. Suffering preys on the weak. Death and Destruction are neighbors. The world is broken, and I lost my dime-sized Band-Aid.

I care deeply for the pain of the afflicted. Don’t get me wrong. It’s just that the human spirit can only handle so much stimuli. Starvation. Famine. Rape. Poverty. Genocide. Mutilation. Hate.

I recently hosted a conference on the relationship between technology and the Christian faith. The speaker made an interesting observation – as the world get smaller and more “glocal” we are increasingly confronted with tragedy and devastation. Think back to agrarian America in the 1800s. Your primary source of current news is word-of-mouth and the occasional newspaper you run across when you go into town to get supplies. Your world is limited, and thus so are the tragedies you empathize with or personally experience. If your neighbor’s barn burns down, the community rallies together and has a barn raising complete with a dinner of sweet tea and fried chicken to celebrate the end of a hard day’s labor. Since the suffering of which you are aware is generally localized, you have greater power to remedy the adversity.

Today my Yahoo homepage proclaims that the Pakastani floods have claimed more than 800 lives. Motivated by compassion and mercy, instead of being able to provide a room for a displaced family, serve breakfast at a local shelter, or hold the hand of a grieving mother, my only tangible acts of support from ten time zones away are prayer and monetary gifts.

Yes, I can entreat God to provide for those who are without, to protect those who are dislocated, and to bless each survivor as he or she seeks to rebuild his or her life. But can I be honest? Sometimes prayer doesn’t feel like enough. I’m convinced that I should be doing more to help. I feel compelled to physically act in tandem with the faith expressed in my prayers. After all, “He has told you, O man, what is good; and what does the LORD require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with you God?” (Micah 6:8)

Thus, in my bewildered state where my heart feels almost numb upon hearing that a friend lost her mother and would appreciate a meal and where my mind coldly swims through the statistics surrounding the prevalence of child soldiers in Rwanda, what am I to do? As a Christian, as a woman, as a fellow human being outraged that your dignity and respect was stripped from you by brute force? How would you have me respond, Lord? What am I to do?

And so, I continue to study the Word, to reflect, to beseech God for personal direction, to read the works of others passionate about justice[1], and to breathe in of His goodness. For this I am sure of – one day evil will be vanquished. On that great day, God “will wipe every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning nor crying nor pain anymore.” (Revelation 21:4) All things will be made new, and at last I will have no need for my man-made Band-Aids.

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[1]

For anyone grappling with similar issues, I’d highly recommend Just Courage by Gary Haugen and She Did What She Could by Elisa Morgan.

In honor of Summer

Jason and I are headed to Fredericksburg, Texas for a short vacation - our first get-away since our honeymoon a year and a half ago. In honor of summer, please enjoy...

Lemons and ‘Coon Dogs

When the air blows hot and the cicadas sing, the porch stirs to life. Rocking chairs creak all the day long as they warm their tired joints. The lemons gush one to another about the cool plunge, and feverishly in love, the Queen longs to get close to the King. Lounging on the rail, the patchwork quilt flaps about cool nights, while the rug, thin and faded, hungers to retire. With a spring in his step and a twinkle of gloss, the wooden plank floor begs, “Call me Sinatra.” The fan twirls idly over their heads, and sighing, the ‘coon dog settles in for his nap. These are lazy-porch days.

Today I Became a Professional

Today I became a professional. I didn’t receive a phone call from the Human Resources Director notifying me that I had gotten my first post-college job. I wasn’t measured for a skirt suit. I did not purchase sharp black heels that resound with a satisfying “clack” when I walk. I didn’t launch my own business. I have not received a coveted promotion with a salary increase. No, I already have a job, a nameplate on my desk, 4 mugs for tea-sipping when the post-lunch coma hits, and a red bag to transport my event files back and forth.

Today two items of personal importance arrived in the mail – a pen and a box of business cards. The business cards denote my function and purpose: name, title, employer, location, and contact information. Just wallet-sized cardstock with purple and black lettering, like all the others on campus. Each one is a temporal object – easily forgotten and quickly discarded once it has served its purpose. And yet, today I feel as though I’ve finally “arrived.” That my childhood “lets-pretend” game of office has suddenly become quite real. For two years I’ve scribbled my name on scraps of paper found at the bottom of my purse and apologized for lacking the magic networking cards. Now, now I am an official Events Manager.

I run my fingertips over the polished wood grain. The pen is heavy and cool to the touch. Hand-crafted and a gift from a friend, the accompanying note reads, “Write for His glory.” I could stow the pen in my desk. How effortless it is to open a blank document, and after staring at the blinking cursor for a few moments, hit the keys in a synchronized fashion. Click. Click. Click. But I long to create. To put the ball of my pen to paper, to compose words of permanence, to construct ink-smeared meaning, and in so doing, to author the existence of some “other.” Now, now I am an official writer.

Today I became a professional – a woman with black fingers and paper cuts.

Mamaw's Poems

They usually arrive by mail with hummingbirds and roses painted on the face of the envelope. Inside I find a handwritten note and a poem dedicated to me. She’s typed it on the typewriter and so some of the words are misspelled and the alignment is slightly skewed. They speak of cowboys, bluebonnets in Texas, true love, the coming of spring, and the beauty of an honest life. My heritage is preserved in rhyme on hundreds of leaves of paper filed in manila folders.

Living

Good afternoon. Allow me to introduce myself via a tongue-in-cheek perspective of my life as a 20-something, apartment dweller.

Living

I would never dare to whip up marshmallows before sipping powdered hot chocolate or attempt to embroider “I love you Mom” in lieu of a Hallmark card. I have not cataloged the paint chips at Home Depot, nor do I routinely vacuum my drapes. I cannot distinguish between the Noisette and the Damask rose, and I will not hang my life in shadowboxes on the living room wall. I want not linens rich with history, nor do I care to knit my friend a scarf and matching sweater. I think not to address my thank you notes in calligraphy, and every Christmas I fail to wrap the gifts in hand-stamped linen paper. Martha Stewart I am not. Living I am.

I honestly do enjoy reading my Living magazines. Unfortunately, at this time in life, our budget and my time constraints limit my domesticity.

Welcome

Thank you for visiting my blog and for entering into my personal narrative. Please acquaint yourself with who I am and my vision for She Stories. As a new blogger, I'd greatly appreciate any feedback or suggestions you have for me or this blog. So settle back, grab a refreshing glass of Passion Fruit iced tea or that chocolate chip cookie you've been eying, and join me in exploring my own story and the narratives of other women.