“More than ideas, more than convictions, more than wise words, God give me passion.”
These were the words written in my journal the other day after a political conversation with a friend. It was a small thing that was said, and not directed at me in any way. But I found it hard to compose myself for the rest of the conversation. Later I cried. I cried for the oppressed. I cried for the faces burned in my memory. Faces of starving children with bloated stomachs. Faces full of fear. Fear of witch doctors. Fear of disease. Fear of other people. Fear of where they were going to find the next meal for their family. I cried for the faceless bones left over in the wake of war and genocide. I cried for the pile of infant shoes left in memoriam at the Auschwitz prison camp. I cried for the man that asked me for a half loaf of bread so he could have something to give his wife. I cried for the women and children sold into slavery. I cried for the women that sacrifice themselves and sell sex so their family can eat. I cried for the faces in the BMW driving past the 500,000 people living in the township with no more then 10′ by 10′ shacks to try and scratch out a living in. I cried for my toothless friends who’s lives has been consumed by drugs and alcohol while trying to fill the emptiness in their heart. I cried because I’m one of them. Because God has removed race from eyes. I no longer see borders, flags, or national pride. I see people who’s blood runs red just like mine. MT
