compassion

God is breaking my heart.

I've always thought of myself as a compassionate person.  Now, I'm realizing how little compassion I truly have compared to the love of our Father.

I can't stop weeping and for once my tears are not for myself, but for others.  So many others.  The cold, the hungry, the hurting, the little ones in need of a kind touch, a warm embrace.

While I sit here in my cozy home worrying about paying a mortgage, when really I should be thankful I have a mortgage to pay, I realize I want my heart to be broken.

So broken, that I must do something.  

So broken that I cannot sit back and watch children shiver because they have no warm coat while ten hang in my closet.  

So broken that I can no longer avoid the bad neighborhoods, but seek ways to bring them the Light of Jesus.

So broken that I can't ignore the homeless man on the corner, the mother addicted to drugs, the teens living on the streets.
The tears are blurring this screen now as I pray,

"Break me, Lord, and show me what you see everyday.  And may my feet move where your heart leads."

Wiping my eyes, I glance at the picture I've opened up.  A dejected little boy huddled on the street, and these words written above him in a handwriting I now recognize, "I WAS HERE".  God.  Here.  In the loneliness.  Walking with the abandoned, hurting with the destitute and the outcast.  I sense his invitation, the gentle imploring of His Spirit.  

Will I scribble in the handwriting of God on the walls of the oppressed, "I was here"?  Will I go where He goes?  Will I look for Him where I least expect Him?

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*This week and next week, I've invited some guest bloggers to share their incredible stories of compassion.  God is calling.  His love is restless, longing for our feet to carry it, our hands to offer it.