For
Bolivians from the flat hot jungle plains, my two girls love some snow! We've
had a couple snow days in as many weeks, and Angie's had some time
to take advantage of the slippery white stuff on our tiny saucer sled. But the
first snow day we had, should have been called a freezing-rain day.
Instead of the beautiful six-sided fluffy white flakes, we were deluged with
miserably cold and wet near-ice falling from the sky and coating everything it touched.
It
was a Friday, my morning to spend sorting mail at Jefferson
Street Baptist Center, so she joined me and worked on her alphabet,
(you'd be surprised how many adults have a hard time getting the mail in
exactly the right order!)
Serving
the homeless is not a new thing for Angie, she joins us most Thursday nights to
serve dinner and pass out clothes and toiletries with Lost Sheep
Ministries.
But
this particular Friday, as our guests sought refuge from the icy rain that
soaked through every tattered layer right down to the bone, it got to me. When
our shift was over and we left the warmth of the building returning to the
frozen parking lot, I was heartbroken for my poor friends who couldn't even
stay dry under the expressway overpasses. When my sympathy showed, Angie
quickly reassured me in a confident voice, "Mommy, they made bad
choices."
It
struck me. It struck me like a ton of bricks to hear words I must have said at
some point be repeated to me and sound so heartless. It struck me to be
reminded why many lack compassion for these downtrodden, because they
"chose" this way of life. And it struck me that God so generously
overlooks our guilt and reckless "choices" when He sees us
with such love through the grace of Christ's blood.
So,
I defended them. I corrected Angie, that some of them were on the streets by
choice, or by consequence of their stupid decisions about substances and
crimes, but others were disabled and unable to find work, mentally ill and
marginalized, financially ruined, or addicts helpless in the clutches of their addiction. Many were actively working to sober up and put their lives back together. And all
had been dealt a very rough hand. Few had a situation so simple as to say they'd
chosen to be homeless.
I
saw no harm in my response. Both our sides had truth to them. Most of our
friends on the streets could have made better choices and stayed off the
streets. Many still could swallow their pride and choose to accept help from
others, or make the tough decision to get clean and straighten out their lives.
But all of them deserve our compassion, as none of us have lived perfect lives
by any means, and most of them have had circumstances far beyond their control
lead them to where they are now.
That
is, I saw no harm in my response until the next day.
You've
likely gathered that Angie's sassiness will rival any tweenage girls', but for
some reason after a particularly uncalled for snotty afternoon I felt a nudge
at bedtime to ask her why she'd been acting this way. After some prodding, she
hid her face and started to cry. Finally, she revealed that she was
"scary" (her way of saying she's scared.) "I see people
sometimes and I'm scared I'm going to be like them," she confessed.
It
quickly came together without further explanation that seeing homeless people
regularly wasn't intimidating when she thought they had made bad choices that
lead them to where they are today. But as soon as she learned there were
variables outside of their control, she feared she might someday join them
whether she wanted to or not.
It
touched me, as I can't say such thoughts have never crossed my mind about her
past and where it might lead her in the future, about how vulnerable she was in
her first family and then in the orphanage, and how little power we have to
guarantee a safe and happy future for her even now.
But
instead of dwelling on the uncertainty of life, I reassured her that every
person on the street either has no family to turn to, or chose not to accept
help from their loved ones.
And
then we listed all the people who would never let Angie be left out in the
cold, if she wanted a home. "Even if something happened to Daddy and me,
would the Bulos take care of you? Would Grampa Steve take care of you? Gramma
Susan and Tom, Bubby and Daddad, Grandma and Grampa Charles, Tia Kiki and
Mikey, Uncle Chris and Erin, Beth, Byron, Jeanie, the list went on and on. Each
one a reminder of how loved she was, how safe she is now, and how far she's
come in a few short years. Each name calming her like a salve soaking right to
her soul.
Maybe
the most touching part came when I thought she should have been comforted, but
she was still a bit unsettled.
"But
what if I don't live near any of them?"
"Well,
why wouldn't you live near them if you needed help?"
"What
if I want to go somewhere and help people like you did? Like what if I want to
move to Africa where there are lots of poor people." (cue: heart
melt...)
"That
would be a good thing to do. You might just have to decide if helping poor
people is more important than feeling safe. When I moved to Bolivia, I had to
choose to leave all the people who make me feel safe, because I wanted to serve
God in a place where I didn't know anyone. So, if something's really important
to you, sometimes you have to take a risk..."
She
may not be the brightest bookworm in the 6th grade yet, but she wrestles with
the big stuff. And she challenges me to keep wrestling with these very real
issues; complacency, safety, poverty, serving others, and God's sovereignty in
our lives.
In
this season of materialism, where homes are cozy and fires are warm, where
extravagance is wrapped and waiting under the tree, and security is found in
our bank accounts, what is enough? What are the real issues? Who are we
overlooking? And what are we risking?
Keep wrestling, friends.
