who am I?
Today I bundled up. In a warm but scratchy toque from Bhutan. In a scarf from Ethiopia. In mittens from Nepal.
Sitting on the skytrain behind me was a woman coming down off of heroin. Her eyes rolled back. Her lovely blue pupils were rimmed with red. She didn't stop moving. Not even for one second. She curled into a ball, vulnerable. She aggressively unfurled her arbs and legs, dangled her limbs askew on the seat, tense, twitching, back and forth.
Her little left foot was covered in a wet, dirty red woolen sock that was hanging onto her toes for dear life. The five vibrant welts on her foot were signs of her anxious fingers, grasping. For what?
She was thirsty. She needed water. She wanted someone to listen to her. To look her in the face and hear her. See her. Value her.
I sat there thinking: I hope she doesn't attack me. Talk to me. Make eye contact. I hope I can ignore her.
I was scared. In my fancy dancy warm clothes. With my backpack filled with lovely Ethiopian things for my friends. On my way to a coffee shop to eat gooey warm cinnamon buns and sip a mug of steamed milk.
Scared.
It is easier to love poverty when it comes in the form of a vulnerable 4 year old girl who impishly tugs at my shirt. It is easier to bless the poor in spirit when they live in a beautiful village in the Rift Valley, innocent, dirty but gentle.
What am I to do with myself when I could not look this woman in the face without showing her my fear?
What does it mean to say "I love Jesus" when I could not give this woman a sip of water?
What do I do when poverty reaches out, attacks my senses, oversteps my boundaries? Poverty is people. Alive. Hurting. Angry. Confused. Strung out on acid. Brandishing an empty cap filled with change. Right here. In my home. Who am I to think that I love people when I could not look her in the face? She who is created by God, blessed, holy and dearly loved. She of whom God said, "It is good."
Who am I?
Sitting on the skytrain behind me was a woman coming down off of heroin. Her eyes rolled back. Her lovely blue pupils were rimmed with red. She didn't stop moving. Not even for one second. She curled into a ball, vulnerable. She aggressively unfurled her arbs and legs, dangled her limbs askew on the seat, tense, twitching, back and forth.
Her little left foot was covered in a wet, dirty red woolen sock that was hanging onto her toes for dear life. The five vibrant welts on her foot were signs of her anxious fingers, grasping. For what?
She was thirsty. She needed water. She wanted someone to listen to her. To look her in the face and hear her. See her. Value her.
I sat there thinking: I hope she doesn't attack me. Talk to me. Make eye contact. I hope I can ignore her.
I was scared. In my fancy dancy warm clothes. With my backpack filled with lovely Ethiopian things for my friends. On my way to a coffee shop to eat gooey warm cinnamon buns and sip a mug of steamed milk.
Scared.
It is easier to love poverty when it comes in the form of a vulnerable 4 year old girl who impishly tugs at my shirt. It is easier to bless the poor in spirit when they live in a beautiful village in the Rift Valley, innocent, dirty but gentle.
What am I to do with myself when I could not look this woman in the face without showing her my fear?
What does it mean to say "I love Jesus" when I could not give this woman a sip of water?
What do I do when poverty reaches out, attacks my senses, oversteps my boundaries? Poverty is people. Alive. Hurting. Angry. Confused. Strung out on acid. Brandishing an empty cap filled with change. Right here. In my home. Who am I to think that I love people when I could not look her in the face? She who is created by God, blessed, holy and dearly loved. She of whom God said, "It is good."
Who am I?
posted by Lindsey Joy at 11:00 PM
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