love and pride can occupy the same spaces

yesterday at church felt like one of the many hard mornings during the last (and ridiculously painful) stretch of waiting time last fall. as we painfully waited for Isaiah to be with us. I'm not sure why, really. I've been increasingly emotional lately, thinking about Isaiah's story. though his story is of course personal and unique, part of it is also a story shared with millions of people around the world.

he didn't have a family.

I know, I know. He was always part of ours. and I really feel that way. and God was always with him, even when he was alone. That is not cheap encouragement. I think it is a necessary and helpful reminder. But if it is supposed to make the reality of orphanhood, for Isaiah or anyone else, somehow more palatable. or if it leads us to be complacent about the millions of kids around the world who don't have families:

no. thank. you.

yesterday morning our church recognized Compassion Sunday, where we heard testimonies from people who have sponsored kids through Compassion International, to help pay for school fees, medical bills, food, etc. I was feeling a little bit vomity (thinking about the reality of people Isaiah and we remember, who are still living at Home of Hope, people I know around the world who live and work in extremely difficult and painfully impoverished areas, who deeply love people who really don't have enough to eat. who really don't have access to the basic necessities of life. people whose life expectancy is unjustly and unfathomably lower than ours just because they were born someplace different than me. people who literally prostitute their children because otherwise they can't buy food to feed the kids they love. kids, of course, who can't imagine that there is a God who loves them... or else why would their life look like this.)

it was bad enough just imagining some of those stories that I'm all too familiar with, and then one of our friends said 'we're going to watch a video now to hear more about the lives Compassion International is touching.' I was already starting to cry and I looked at Hunter and desperately mumbled something like, "I've got to get out of here. this isn't going to be good."

and I bolted. I made a beeline for the back of the room where I watched and, as silently as possible, cried soft, broken, mama bear tears over the lives of precious kids who don't have families.

Isaiah's story could have been different. or, at least, lots of other beautiful, amazing, made-in-God's-image kids' lives are really painfully different. because of really sad, unjust things.

Let me pause for a second. If you've been around this blog for a while, I won't have to remind you of my enormous struggles with pride and self-righteousness when it comes to being a mommy of an incredible Rwandan kiddo. If there is a chance to pervert something beautiful God gave to me (love of the marginalized and sometimes forgotten), I did it and I do it. I've been known to awkwardly steer conversations to let people know that we have an adoptive son from Rwanda, hoping they'll think well of me. (vomit) In my worst moments I've felt like everyone should adopt (and that isn't the case) and I've hoped that no one else around us would adopt (so I can feel special and superior). I am so ashamed of the ways I've been prideful, selfrighteous and ungracious.

and yet, "love and pride can occupy the same spaces" sometimes. that's a line from a Sara Groves song that is in this video we made for Isaiah. what a great description of my life as it relates to these issues.

I'm so thankful for the ways God has given me a measure of his thoughts towards those who are poor. that they are deeply loved, beautiful, dear, gifted, valued, equal. I'm so thankful for how he has given me a measure of his thoughts about injustice and the poor: that He is close to the brokenhearted. that he will hear their cries. that he will punish the wicked. that He wants his people, US!, to intervene. that he wants us to defend the cause of the fatherless and widow. to break the yolk of oppression. to live simply so others can simply live. that he sent his son to die so that one day, every tear will be wiped. and there will be no more hunger, sadness, brokenness, prostitution, orphanhood, death, mourning.

as I pray that he continues to open my eyes to his compassion, to seeing the world as he sees it, asking him to help me weep over what he weeps over. I pray that he will give me a greater measure of his grace that will keep me humble, gentle, respectful, loving, forbearing and full of grace.

because I want these real things to be heard. truths about injustice. pain. suffering. brokenness. and I feel like the way I talk, not seasoned or deeply marinated enough by grace and humility, gives people legitimate reasons not to listen.