I was spending a summer in Honduras. I hardly spoke Spanish and they hardly spoke English.
Saddness, violence, and poverty were everywhere. I snuck away to the porch, collapsed on the ground beside the mop and giant bottles of clean water and put my head in my hands and cried. I cried for the kid who didn't have shoes, for the man who couldn't get surgery, and the pain, the abuse, the violence, and the corruption.
These problems built up in my heart each day and there were too many to be released in just tears. So I started writing furiously. My anger and confusion and frustration and passion would run through my fingers.
I didn't think too much about who would read my posts, my little blog, the emails I sent, the Facebook posts, or the actual letters, but it didn’t matter. I had so many stories to tell and I had to get them out.
As I heard people’s stories, it was like putting a face to statistics. And in light of knowing these stories, I felt that I held a responsibility. I have never been good at speaking in front of people and I hate being the center of attention, but when I write, I feel like I can tell a story from the depths of my soul.
These shocking stories happen all the time. They happen in our city and across the street.
The kind of stories, that, if people knew this, if the Church knew this, surely they would respond differently to the poor or marginalized in our city and in our world.
I can't blame them, though. I never felt responsible for these needs until I heard their stories.