i am angry

Call it a fad.
Call it overrated.
Call it what you will.
It doesn't change the fact that there is an international crisis going on, and most of the world seems content to live in ignorance or denial.

When my children read about this in their history books and ask me, "Mommy, why didn't you help?" I don't want to have to look them in the eyes and say, "I just didn't have time..."
I will make time.

When Hitler began his revolution, and started carting Jews off to work camps, no one stood up. And now, sixty years later, we all scream, "This will never happen again! How could the world be so blind?"
Well, guess what. It is happening again.
A generation of children is fighting a war that they do not understand, do not believe in, and have no business even witnessing.
This is wrong.

I will not sit by anymore.
And just because I cannot get on a plane and physically rescue children, does not mean that I have to stand by and do nothing.

I know that it has been a long fight.
I know that we have all heard of it, got impassioned for it, and then our fire died out.
Rekindle it. Because it is not over. We cannot be a generation that changes the world if we give up when things do not happen immediately.
We have become so accustomed to getting things NOW, that we forget that real change takes time and exhausting effort.
We say we are a generation who is ready to stand up for social justice and fix things that the people before us could not.
But if we are going to do this, we must beat it into the ground, until every single person has come home.
We must continue to have a passion in our hearts, regardless of how long it takes.
Dedicate yourself to something, and see it through.

April 25.
See you there.

The Rescue.
The Game Plan.
The Reason.

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a shocking (and possibly unexpected) revelation...

I have discovered something tonight that may surprise all twelve of you reading this right now. Ready?

I have absolutely no idea what I am doing here. And by here, I mean living in the ghetto of Chicago.

In case you all haven't noticed, I am a white girl. From the burbs. The most diversity I experienced while growing up was the rap station on the radio (which I loved). But just because you enjoy a culture, does not make you a part of that culture, or even fit in to that culture.
I am seeing this more and more the longer I am here.

Being a resident of Chicago is completely different than living in a dorm downtown where the majority of the city shuts down at 8 pm, and whatever is still open is not any place that you should be.
Here, there are drunken arguments outside my bedroom window at 2 am and I can see the flashing blue lights that symbolize a "police protected" area reflecting off the walls.
There are fifty year old prostitutes selling themselves on the same corner that I walk by to get to the train station every morning, and I know the spiel that the homeless man with no legs is going to give me as soon as I see him.
The biggest concern we have for our youth group kids is either gang-banging or worrying which one of our thirteen year old girls is going to get pregnant next, and which drug dealer will be the father this time?
And in the middle of all this, there is me.
There is me, who can do nothing else but cry, "Really God? Is there no one better for this job?"
Who can do nothing else but pray that she gets out of here soon.

And yet...
And yet. There is a sinking feeling inside of me that knows no matter where I go, I will never be able to forget this place, and forget the level of depravity that I have seen, and begun to harden myself to every day.
The first time a homeless person asked me for change, I literally felt my heart breaking as I told him no. I kept glancing back as I walked down the street, praying that God would forgive me for neglecting someone. Now, I barely even glance at them as I say "nope, sorry", and that heart break has turned to a small nudge that is easily quieted.
To be honest, I don't like this place at all.
Twenty minutes ago, someone looked at me and said, "you're a bitch" just for being a white girl walking down the street at 9 pm.
Two minutes later, someone looked at me and said, "how you doing, gorgeous" just for being a white girl walking down the street at 9 pm.
I don't enjoy this.

I dream of a sophisticated little house next to the beach, with a nice little car that I can drive to my wonderfully qualified Graduate School while I learn about how to write fake stories and sell them to people around the world.

Is this all You have made me for?
How can You expect me to do anything else?

Maybe I will never be a martyr in Africa. Maybe I will never be an award-winning author. Maybe I will never own a nice house, or a fancy car, or send my kid to nice schools.
Maybe the greatest sacrifice that I have been called to give is my life, and my dreams for that life.
Maybe I have been called to sacrifice my beach house for an apartment in the ghetto, and my car for a train ride, and my children's fancy schools for a public school where the literacy rate doesn't get higher than a third grade level.
Maybe all of that is a bigger sacrifice than anything else that I could have deemed worthy.
Maybe the one thing that God requires of me is the one thing that I don't want to give.
Who do I love more?

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