I have another post in the works but when I read this heart story from Ann Voskamp, my words seemed ridiculous. I feel paralyzed but at the same time like I can’t possibly sit still. Those words I started writing will just have to be for another day. I have to share this. Have to.
And you have to read it. Have to.
What if our possible choice is
someone else’s impossible choice?
The following words are from Ann’s post,
Into Iraq #2: What the News isn’t telling You & Why We Can’t Afford to Pretend It’s Not Happening [Sozan’s Impossible Choice — and Our Very Possible One]
We aren’t where we are, to just peripherally care about the people on the margins as some superfluous gesture or token nicety. The exact reason why you are where you are — is to risk everything for those being oppressed out there.
You are where you are — to help others where they are. The reason your hands are where they are in this world — is to give other people in this world a hand.
Caring isn’t a Christian’s sideline hobby. Caring is a Christian’s complete career.
We don’t just care about people — caring about people is our job — the job every single one of us get up to do every single day. That’s it. Caring is our job, our point, our purpose. We’re here to care like a boss.
Because God forbid, you don’t get a roof over your head, food on your table and the safety of no bullets shattering your windows because you deserve more — you only get all that so that you get to serve more.
God forbid, you don’t get to live a comfortable life because you’re better — you only get your life so you get to make someone else’s life better with a bit of comfort.
God forbid, you don’t want to climb a ladder up to the American dream, when you could throw a lifeline down to people living your worst nightmare.
This is your possible choice.
Back to my words now:
My possible choice is someone else’s impossible choice. This concept breaks me. Having traveling to several impoverished areas of the world, I’ve thought a lot about why they were born there and why I had been given the gift of being born in the US. I didn’t deserve it. I didn’t ask for it. It was a gift. I’m not sure why but I’ve never really thought about it being a responsibility. Not with this much weight anyway. I’ve been careful to be grateful, but there is more. Because it’s not about me being blessed. It’s about me being a blessing.
I know that in some cases, maybe even most, those with less really do have more but this is not the case in Iraq. just ask those parched and hungry moms in the shipping container who had to choose which kids to take from one bad situation to another and which kids to leave behind.
When you and your people are being gunned down, you can cram 28 people into a getaway car — but where do you put the 29th? the 30th? Space is finite. There’s a hell on earth that can feel infinite. True, you’ve got to shoehorn yourself into the car because the baby needs you running liquid into their hunger as milk — but how do you turn to your boy and say — “We can’t get you in, Son. There’s no more room, Son.” There are words you lose in translation. Who in the world has categories for this? ~Ann Voskamp
This empties my plate. I honestly don’t know what God wants me to do with this beyond sharing it with you, but I’m reaching out my hands.
Every single one of us can start changing headlines
when we start reaching out our hands.
I hope you’ll take the time to read Ann’s entire post. There is so much more that you need to know.