I don't want to be just a "humanitarian."
I don't want to be a saint.
I don't want to be a crazy martyr.
I want to have a heart that pleases Christ. I want to have a heart FOR Christ.
And I want to see other people with that same life that somehow God found in His beautiful grace to give me. The only real life I've ever known.
I don't want to be Martha. I don't want to get so caught up in doing the work that I miss what, why, for whom, I'm doing the work.
I don't want to look around in frustration because I think someone's doing something "for the wrong reason." Because I think someone "doesn't get it." Because I think that I know someone's motivation, and that I can judge their actions.
How in the world could I ever know someone else's heart?
I want to be new and I want to do what is right and I want for people to see Jesus. That's all. I don't know what else to say. I don't know how such a simple message can become so so so distorted.
And I don't know what else to do.
I don't want to be Martha. I don't want to play a part in doing the work and losing sight.
I didn't think I had, but I don't want people to look at my life and think that I have, either.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Sleeping Man
This Sunday on the subway
I met a homeless man,
And his pushcart, placed nearby,
Sleeping across three slick tangerine seats
In one corner of the C train to Brooklyn
I sat two places down
The doors pulled closed
The car pulled forward
And the man’s pushcart began to roll
Toward his resting place
Instinctively I reached for the handle
To steady the cart
As the car jerked onward into the darkness
As the man dozed into the morning
In silence we spoke
This sleeping man and I
His closed, tired eyes, told of life
My hand, bracing the buggy
And my eyes, open, simply listened
As the stories dripped from the wrinkles
Around his mouth and nose
Spilling on until our third stop
When, at the slip of my grip, I realized
That the cart was wedged to roll only a bit
And could stand on its own
But all the same I held tight to its blue plastic handle
Because I didn’t know what else I could do
And as the car swayed from side to side
Like the folded arms of a mother
Rocking her child's tears into rest
Or as a ship battered in some great gale
Fighting for equanimity
I wondered what was behind
Those closed, tired eyes
I wondered of what he dreamed
I met a homeless man,
And his pushcart, placed nearby,
Sleeping across three slick tangerine seats
In one corner of the C train to Brooklyn
I sat two places down
The doors pulled closed
The car pulled forward
And the man’s pushcart began to roll
Toward his resting place
Instinctively I reached for the handle
To steady the cart
As the car jerked onward into the darkness
As the man dozed into the morning
In silence we spoke
This sleeping man and I
His closed, tired eyes, told of life
My hand, bracing the buggy
And my eyes, open, simply listened
As the stories dripped from the wrinkles
Around his mouth and nose
Spilling on until our third stop
When, at the slip of my grip, I realized
That the cart was wedged to roll only a bit
And could stand on its own
But all the same I held tight to its blue plastic handle
Because I didn’t know what else I could do
And as the car swayed from side to side
Like the folded arms of a mother
Rocking her child's tears into rest
Or as a ship battered in some great gale
Fighting for equanimity
I wondered what was behind
Those closed, tired eyes
I wondered of what he dreamed
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
5/22/07
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