When I go to ministry in Latvia,
I think about how behind every one of those doors
is a Lifetime movie waiting to happen.
I think about how every single person on this planet
has some sort of a story to tell.
I think about how just because you have a TV,
it doesn’t mean you’re not poor.
About how there are lots of other ways to be poor.
I wonder who everyone eats dinner with on Christmas,
or who calls them on their birthdays,
or who brings them orange juice when they are too sick to leave their apartment.
I wonder what they wanted to be when they grew up.
And if they had a favorite game to play when they were a kid.
And I wonder if they had a favorite aunt who brought them candy.
And if they miss having someone like that in their life.
I wonder if there are families behind some of those doors.
Families where if love was money they would be rich,
because they have a lot.
But love isn’t money.
And so sometimes they don’t eat.
Which is hard.
I think about the people who built the apartments.
How one day someone said,
“I want to put a building here.”
And so they went to the town council
and got the permits,
and hired a crew.
And the people worked for hours and hours
and maybe even got injured
but there was no workman’s comp.
But it was okay because the building got built.
And they could walk their kids by that building every day
and say, “Hey, I made that. I made a lasting impression on this planet.”
And I think about the people who painted the walls.
And if they tried really hard to get the paint just right
because they wanted to be proud of their work.
Or maybe they didn’t
because it was just another job.
And I think about the builders and painters now.
And if their kids are still alive.
And if they see the broken windows
and the chipped paint
and the graffiti on the walls.
And I wonder if that makes them sad.
I think about how God was intentional with each and every person He created.
How He carefully formed each and every one of us.
How even though only some people end up on TV,
or in the newspaper,
we’re all saturated with significance.
But a lot of the time we don’t see that in others or ourselves.
I wonder if God is like the people who made these buildings.
The people who took such great care to make something amazing.
And I wonder what He thinks when He sees our broken windows and chipped paint.
I wonder if it makes Him sad.
Or if He doesn’t see it the way we do.
Or if He intended for our windows to break and our paint to chip all along.
Because it gives us character
and allows Him to come in and fix it again.
But I think about how he probably doesn’t like it
when His buildings are left in total disrepair.
And people don’t look at them anymore
or maybe they look at them
but don’t see them as buildings
just a crumbling mess of broken down bricks instead
and then they have to dig in the garbage for food
because that’s what people think they are anyway.
And I guess maybe I shouldn’t think about these things.
Because it makes me sad.
But I met a woman who sleeps in the parking lot of the passport office building
who says she doesn’t have anyone to love.
And then there’s the woman
who’s daughter died
but she didn’t get to go to the funeral because it was in Ireland.
And also she didn’t find out about it for months later.
And I wonder how that sort of stuff happens.
And at the antique store
there are old photo albums.
And I think about how each and every person in those photos
belonged to someone once.
And they woke up every day
and ate breakfast
and laughed with their friends
and went for walks in the park
and hoped to fall in love.
And someone cared about them enough to snap a photo.
And now all of their faces
are sitting on a table
on a side street
in Riga.
And I honestly don’t know what that has to do with anything.
Except for it’s what I’ve been thinking about.
And I guess it keeps me humble.
To think about how we’re all exceedingly significant
and at the same this life is incredibly fleeting.
And that’s an interesting thing to think about.
