Each of us has a reality- it’s the world in which we breathe, exist, and live our lives.
It’s our personal situation, set of circumstances, and normal day to day experience.
Each of our worlds are filled with their own problems, joys, sorrows and celebrations,
and often we struggle to step outside of our own reality and enter into someone else’s.
Whether it’s an African child or the man in a suit across the desk,
it’s hard for us to understand the life of another.
We hear about extreme hunger, violence, AIDs, racism, slavery, child wars and persecution,
but they seem far away- more of an idea than someone’s reality.
And if you’re like me, you travel across the world in hopes of entering these other worlds- wanting to feel, wanting to understand. You go to the places where hunger is the norm and disease part of life.
Places where tragedies scream in your face,
because surely then your cold heart will be able to feel.
And at first it does… but then time goes on, and little by little, your heart starts to forget to feel.
The same bloated tummies pop out from under tiny t-shirts and mutilated hands reach towards you begging for an extra penny, but they no longer grab at your heart the way that they once did.
And it terrifies you that even here, in the midst of it all, your heart could be so cold.
I have heard it said that emotions are insignificant,
but I don’t think that’s true.
Our King is one who feels deeply. He wept with Lazareth’s mourning sisters. When we cry, he cries with us. When we celebrate, he sings and dances with us.
The truth is emotions are powerful. They guide our actions and control our responses.
Perhaps, that is why we stop feeling.
We fear their power over us.
We are afraid to feel the impact of the social injustices that hail on poster boards and are featured on the news. We are afraid of feeling too much and being put in a position where we simply have to do something about the aching in our heart.
But then, maybe that’s the point.
A few days back I was sitting on a bamboo mat soaking in the morning with my Bible, journal and steaming cup of chai in hand, when a distressed woman stumbled into the small hut. Sorrow and stress were etched into her forehead and weariness hung on her countenance. Collapsing on the mat beside me, her miseries began tumbling out.
She had just been diagnosed with AIDS at the local clinic.
She didn’t know how… her husband and seven children were clean, and although she had been faithful to her husband she had somehow fallen victim to this death sentence. She was tested three times to be sure… it just made no sense to her.
On top of that news, her hairdressing salon was no longer providing enough income to feed her seven children. Her husband was of little help and she contemplated prostituting herself to keep them alive, but refrained for fear that she would be unable to live with the shame.
With nowhere else to turn, she came here this early morning seeking prayer.
As she poured out her story, the gates of my heart unlatched
and the emotions rushed from the stoney well that had laid dry for days.
This woman’s reality enveloped and folded in around me.
My heart throbbed for her, one soul aching for another.
And gosh, it hurt!
But it hurt in a way that felt right.
After listening to her, the words and prayers came spilling from the depths of my being. I don’t remember what was said because it wasn’t me speaking, but as I held her hand I watched her demeanor slowly change.
Like a wilted flower coming back to life, her face softened and her burden lifted.
It hit me that the money in my pocket could feed her children for weeks,
and I couldn’t have been more eager to press it in her hand.
I don’t want to close my eyes and let these things be someone else’s problem.
I want to give and never be ashamed that it is too much.
I want to feel for others and not worry if my heart will recover.
Sure, I don’t have the money to fix all the tragedies in the world, but at least I can offer a feeling heart.
I can step into a dying woman’s shoes, and feel for a moment what she feels, comfort her with genuine compassion, and tell her of a hope that outlives her reality.
I don’t ever want to stop feeling, because if I stop feeling, I might stop truly loving.
And so, this is my prayer: that every day my heart would stretch a little wider, grow a little bigger, and love a little deeper. That it would feel what Jesus feels when He looks into the eyes of a heartbroken woman, and that my heart would burn for the things that burn His. I pray that He would take this heart of stone and replace it with a heart of flesh that can’t help but throb with love and compassion for the broken people of this world.
