I was ashamed. Someone shared with me, all the way from Virginia, a newspaper article featuring my eldest son. It was a poignant piece about the homeless, where my son lives and works. Unbeknownst to his mother, the boy has been hanging out with these displaced souls, just loving on and building friendships with them. Am I ashamed because I’m not the kind of person my son is? Not willing to associate with the less notable in our society? Actually, that’s not it at all. I’m ashamed because I remember a 21-year-old mom who, while holding her infant, would strike up a conversation with an elderly street woman…then allow the baby to be cooed over by someone who most likely hadn’t been close-up with a baby in years. Ashamed because I remember a 23-year-old mom, who took her 2-year-old to another country, set up house, and happily let the natives – from city street to village road – pass her son around, as if he was one of their own. Ashamed because I remember Thanksgivings, when a 30-something-year-old mom took her junior high son to serve people-with no place to go-a holiday meal…then encouraged him to sit with and really get to know them. I’m not ashamed because I’m not that person. I’m ashamed because I was that person…and somehow, in the distractions of this life…I let her slip away. “Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.” Matthew 25:40 – Lord, forgive us for getting caught up in ourselves. May we see you today…in the lives of those the world deems the “least,” and love you by loving them. Holding out and onto hope, KyAnne (My Daily Disappearance)
Posted on: Mon, 20 Oct 2014 12:03:42 +0000