| | I was at Haste House prayer this morning and in the middle some folks
started crying for the broken and lost and oppressed of the world.
Half-sobs, salt-blister tears and only what can be described as cries
to a One who promised to be powerful and mighty and just. I wrote them
down (I hope they don't mind) because they were frightening, they were
foreign and so beautifully and earnestly not-about-themselves (I know
there's the perfect word for this floating around out there).
They were weeping because they had been there, watched
kids cling to their legs, witnessed unjust factory conditions, heard
village women whisper stories of genocide, read statistics about the
6000 kids contracting malaria daily, a continent dying of AIDS, a
single man loitering by People's Park or huddled under the pillar of
the Unit 3 parking garage.
Is the burden too much for their God, is their God doing nothing? Their hearts hunger to be broken again and again like His is.
I wrote down their prayers and tried to mouth them myself. They trickle
out of my throat but never make it to my heart. Man, I still don't know
what it means to have my heart break for anything. It's a tricky little
guilty feeling, I decide, and tell God to do it anyways, break my heart
unequivocally for something or someone other than myself.
At that moment all I know is this pounding desire to know God's heart
so much to be weeping His salty tears on a Saturday morning.
-Andrew (2/4/2006)
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| | Posted 2/11/2006 10:24 PM - 19 Views - 0 eProps - 0 comments
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