The Day God Broke My Heart

I’ve been sitting in front of my computer,
staring at the screen and waiting for the right words to describe the
state of my heart. It’s just me in our bedroom, forced to sift through
my thoughts. Sylvia calls me to the living room for lunch, so I re-focus
my eyes and crawl out of bed to join her and the kids. My mind still
seems to be in a haze. I sit down to begin eating, then look up and
realize that Sylvia has asked me a question; she’s staring at me and
waiting for a response. I force a smile, answer her question, and tell
her thank you for the delicious meal. Sylvia asks me if I’m tired, she
can sense something is bothering me. I tell her everything’s fine, then
join in the conversation at the appropriate times throughout lunch and
retreat back to my room; my mouth is trained to speak the right words,
but my mind is far away from me since yesterday.

 

Yesterday. The day God decided to break my heart; the day I felt
like a tidal wave crashed into me. The day God decided He could take the
scales off my eyes and expose me to the gravity of the world’s
problems. The day I breathed in the stench of mud puddles filled with
feces. The day I walked the streets of Luongwe with Jeremy and was
overwhelmed by the people around me; a drunk man tried to take my
grocery bags from me, a young girl ran behind me and pulled my arm while
asking for money, and a group of teenage boys followed us to the gate
of our house, ignoring the fact that we asked them to leave. Those parts
of the day barely scratch the surface of the array of experiences that I
had.

 

Earlier in the day, Jeremy and I went to town to buy groceries and
check e-mail. I’ve been overcome with tiredness the past few days, so my
mind was in a fog as we walked down the sidewalk lined with elderly
women begging for food and money. In a sense, I feel like my mind has
become numb to the poverty surrounding me; it’s now normal for me to be
asked for money twenty times a day, normal to hardly ever eat meat,
normal to pile in a small bus with thirty people and various kinds of
animals, normal to take a shower with water out of a bucket, and normal
for me to lay my head down in a house with no electricity. It seems
normal because it’s been my life for the past 5 months, but that doesn’t
mean poverty is acceptable. It’s 11 months for me and a lifetime for
these people.

 

As I was walking down the street and wondering if my heart had
become hardened to the conditions around me, I saw him; a young
teenager, no older than 15, lying dead on the sidewalk. It looked as
though he were sleeping, but his motionless body position and the flies
swarming around his head told me otherwise. I diverted my eyes, stepped
around him, and continued walking. I told myself I couldn’t do anything
about it and thought surely someone would move his body to a proper
place.

 

Several hours later, we walked down the same sidewalk. I’m going to
name the young teenager Peter, because it seems like his life was
meaningless if I continue to refer to him as a nameless boy. Peter’s
body still lie on the sidewalk; someone had taken the time to cover his
face with a jacket, but no one had moved him.

 

As we walked past, I noticed two boys around the age of 7 sitting
on a pile of rocks a few feet from Peter’s body. They shouted out
Mazungo (white man) to us, ignoring the fact that there was a dead body
separating us, took a sip of their Coke, flashed us a cheesy grin, and
continued chattering to each other; something broke inside of me during
that very moment. I grieved for the loss of innocence of those children;
the fact that they are non-chalant towards death and unfazed by things
that take my breath away.

 

I tried to focus on finding the bus stop and attempted to forget
the image that was burned into my mind; my stomach was in a knot and I
was sure I would vomit at any second. I couldn’t help but wonder if
anyone was looking for Peter, or if he even had a family that would miss
him. How many children in the world live that kind of life? A life
robbed of innocence and care-free giggles. 

 

I allowed myself to feel the hurt of the people around me in
Ireland and felt like my heart was being wrenched inside of me; I wept
for what seemed like days, a pain that I didn’t want to feel again. But,
these people don’t get to choose whether they experience that
pain…it’s their reality. For the first time since then, I gave myself
permission to fall apart; permission to cry out for the people that live
in this despair…the people that are so often just faces on a poster
or a television screen.

 

I don’t have a 3 step solution to solve the inhumanity and
injustice in the world. I don’t know where to go from here. I’m only one
person, but I do know that I’ve seen and now I have a responsibility to
DO SOMETHING. I do know that I’m not the same person I was 24 hours
ago. I do know that one person can start a ripple effect of change in
the world. I do know that I asked the Lord to break my heart for what
breaks His; He answered me in a less than ideal way, but He still
answered me nonetheless. I’ve gone from counting the costs of what God
is continuing to speak to me about the plans for my life, to counting
the times that I hear God say to do more….something I’ve tried to
ignore and go on with life as I had it planned. I don’t know where to go
from here, but I’m taking steps forward towards the person that God is
calling me to be…and that’s a start.