I can’t write.
I can’t assemble thoughts.
I hear babies are dying.
In first class schools and third world homes.
I hear we’re not on the front lines.
We aren’t dependent. We’re privileged and underwhelmed.
We’re. So. Confident.
My heart breaks with the broken hearted and it’s with them I want to assemble.
I long to see the need of the broken and when I have nothing else to offer, I want to offer my hand.
My prayer knees.
My broken heart.
We are but fools to think we are not all fighting a war.
For souls.
All that is well, all that is good is being fought for.
With the fervor of one who knows death is eminent. We will not win if we do not fight.
We will not win if we don’t recognize the front line.
Where we are standing.
It is with fear we retaliate in anger. We blame and point fingers. We need to find a fault that is not our own.
It’s weapons, it’s illness, it’s negligence.
It’s poverty, it’s starvation, it’s homelessness.
It is nothing more than what it has always been and when will we stop being surprised?
You are not at a precipice but in the battle of war that cannot be won with bullets.
It won’t be won by politicians or highways.
The victor is not he who solves the biggest problem.
The victor is he who loves the most. Or he who loves at all beyond his own feet.
I have nothing new to say. Nothing that a hundred hearts have not already cried.
But I’ll be damned if wherever you stand is not the mission field you were sent to.
Be broken.
Be shattered.
Be torn apart in battle.
And be empowered; you were sent by the victor.