thud//week27

Today I watched a boy get hit by a car.

I walked from the dirt patch where I park every week in Chris Hani and passed by the fruit and vegetable stand. Laura and I were laughing about something. Before crossing the street to the church I looked left. Out of the corner of my eye I watched a boy of eight or nine run across the street only to be propelled twenty feet to the other side by black VW hatchback. At that same moment I heard a thud- the kind that makes you go weak at the knees.

A mere fifty feet away, I stood paralyzed with shock. My heart was threatening to jump out of my mouth. My hand over my mouth seemed to suffocate me. I felt light headed. And as I stood there helpless, I watch the boy struggle to stand. Instantly, his legs gave out and he returned to the pavement hopeless. A man from the offending car jumped out, scooped the boy up and returned to the car. As the drove past, I got a quick glimpse of the boy’s quivering lip. And they were off.

My mind was suddenly drowning in questions. No one had gone to look for his parents or a friend. Did this boy know these people? The clinics are closed. Will they wait the long hours with him at the government hospital? Or will they drop him off at sangoma, a witch doctor? What if he’s bleeding internally?

I still can’t wrap my mind around this.

But what really strikes me is the mass suffering of these children. This car accident was a tangible and difficult evidence of suffering. And how many more children have avoided car accidents but are dying of HIV or AIDS? None of them have big thuds to scream their case.

This is a big world with big problems for little people. Good thing we have a big God who hears all those thuds… right?

a tug of worlds//week26

Below is adapted from an article I wrote for APU magazine, "Generation Why." I think it best describes the inner turmoil I'm facing as I prepare to move from a developing country back to the wealthiest nation in the world's history.

As I leave my adolescence behind, I find myself in the middle of a ferocious tug of war. After many touching encounters with the world’s underprivileged, I have wanted to forsake my lavish American lifestyle. However, the desire to meet societal standards makes it a challenge. For a humanitarian spirit like myself, to buy or not to buy is a troubling dilemma.

At first glance it may seem simple. I must simply avoid the unnecessary acquisition of stuff. But I, like many American Generation Y-ers, was raised in a world where happiness, acceptance and success were all implicitly measured by the designer brands you owned, luxury cars you drove and extravagant vacations you enjoyed. I live in a land where 16-year-olds receive new SUVs and sports cars for birthday presents. A place where college students, including myself, carry their books about poverty, disease and other world injustices in designer bags. And where private schools schedule ski vacations so families can make use of their “snow homes.”

I always had an innate sense of caring for others. I would put money in the offering at church for those starving African children, and my family made several trips down to Mexico to give away our old clothes. I was well aware that there were many people in the world who lived nothing like I did. But it never really affected me. That is, until my first trip across the big pond to South Africa. There I made friends which shoeless children dressed in tattered clothing. There I held children whose parents’ lives had been stolen by a rampant disease called AIDS. At the formative age of 16, I found myself in a place that didn’t put value on brands or appearance, but rather on life, simply because life is a luxury there.

Upon returning, my heart had been transformed. Instead of longing for a new Coach purse, I wanted to see shoes on the feet of the AIDS orphans I had held. Yet within months, I was competing with my Juicy Couture-clad friends. I was spending $700 on purses. I was asking for a new, faster car. And I was concerned with the weight of Nicole Richie.

Year after year I returned to South Africa to see my friends who were delighted with their one tattered uniform and the chance to attend school with poor lighting and no heat. I held one dying child after another. And I would return each time to the States adamant that in remembrance of them, I would not succumb to our materialistic society. And time after time, I would embarrassingly fail at my resolve.

Now, after seven months of living amongst the poverty and crime that grabbed my attention three years ago, I wonder if seven months was enough to transform my whole heart and mind. When I return, will I be able to repress 20 years of socialization? How do I live in that world but not of that world?

play//week25

Today Jesus told me to play.

“But Lord, how do I play? I don’t know how to play. What’s so important about playing anyway?”

“I will teach you. Just come.”

“But Lord what about the things that need to be done? What about planning for tomorrow? How will I make an impact for your kingdom if I don’t get to a place where I can impact?”

“Jenna. You won’t get anywhere without me. I order your steps. And right now, you need to play. If you don’t play now, you’ll never play again. You need to play because you need to let go. You need to let go of tomorrow.”

“Yes, God. But what if I stop to play and then forget to plan?”

“Trust me Jenna. Your ways are not mine. When we do it my way, I get the glory. But forget about that plans. It’s not about the plans. It’s about the play.”

“Dad?”

“Yes, dear.”

“I don’t know about this. Are you sure?”

“The day you stopped playing was the day you stopped fully trusting me. Tomorrow will always be there. But today is just today. So play. I’ll teach you. Just come.”

Today I’m learning to play. Who knows what I’ll do tomorrow.

Have you played today?