recently I was asked to revisit some blogs that I wrote about 2-3 years ago 

they reminded me what God has been teaching me

to come back

He is my first love

and the one I should have zeal for

this is what I wrote

"until we allow God to fill us,

we are merely walking dresses and dress suits

bandaids don't heal hearts but let them try

and I know children who have died because they dont have hepititus shots and arms to wrap around them or someone to blow on their cold hands or hands to zip the backs of their torn dresses and

people send pencils

and even those who know what would heal send the wrong solutions

(bandaids and pencils are inexpensive and easy and count as planting seeds)

and excuse me but I'm angry about it

mad that I find it easier to sit in warm rooms and talk about poverty over expensive wine as crippled minds walk the streets searching for truth or milk to feed their babies

easier to do that than sit with the homeless man on michigan street who thinks he's a famous drummer named Wow. Easier to watch the man sitting talking to the chair beside him than to be that chair for him. easier to complain about school to the girl next to me on the bus than tell her about my first love, Jesus.

Easier to pretend people aren't broken and to fake insecurity than be confident and royalty and the child of a King

Strange

we're called to sit with broken people and pick up the pieces and I think its more beautiful to sit in a dark room in sweatpants with my brother and intercede for broken people and have community with people who live on rice and indian chai in cold rooms filling their yard with tents laughing, worship music blasting from the kitchen and doorknobs that don't understand locks or house keys - I think it's beautiful to spend your evenings prayer walking and streaking God's light into the dark alleys and streets of our neighbor hoods when I could be at the bar, or huddled in my room, or drowning out reality with noise

the past generations, they wanted to

CHANGE THE WORLD

this generation wants to put their hands deep in their pockets (so others won't see their fists full of cash) to provide for retirement. They feel more secure like that somehow, the whole while crying.

And it's my fault their crying because my mouth is still sealed and I am still silent. 

It's easier to convince myself that they are happy so that I can stay put.

and as I typed this, aborted babies died,

homeless people are still hungry

HIV filled bodies in Africa and India breathed their last

in shacks they call homes

and I'll probably get told this blog is too serious

and more than likely

I'll apologize for it."

Nov 12. 2006