confessions

I confess that I sometimes just do not care because it feels like a burden no one can shoulder. Or is it that I care too much but just do not know what to do and so I choose to shut my mind off because there is a direct correlation between knowledge and responsibility.
I confess that sometimes I do not want to know what is going on. I confess that I choose to settle into this ever narrowing Americana tunnel-vision. So then I distract myself with things that really do not matter. When I open up the newspaper it is easier for me to turn to the comics or the sports or the healthy living but it is almost too painful to look at what is going on in the world—even when the newspaper you read arbitrarily filters out the WORLD section into a quarter of a page.
I confess that when I pick up a TIME magazine it is much easier to read about crazy new inventions or new movies or an up and coming writer or trend rather than a war that is ravaging the lives that number greater than the entire city I live in.
I confess that when I turn on the television it is a struggle to make myself turn to a news channel when I could lose myself in laughter of Cosby or Home Improvement re-runs. I confess that I rather read the running line of updates across the bottom of news channels and have it as quickly leave my mind as it races across the screen than watch a report on it.
I confess that it is easier not to care until someone brings it up in conversation and then to become passionate for a moment. I confess that these moments are disturbing and you hope no one will bring them up, stirring my heart that has felt overwhelmed for so long.
I confess that I want to cry when I see beggars and want to give them money even though I have lived my whole life being told not to. I confess that that feeling fades with all too much haste. I confess that I do not do anything to help these people.
I confess that I love getting letters from my sponsored children across the world but I forget to pray for them even though I know they live so simply and through much hunger and difficulty.
I confess I refrain from writing or saying things that I believe because then I will be held accountable. I confess that with the things that my eyes have seen that I am ashamed how idle my hands are, how soft and un-calloused they are—unlike my heart.
I confess that I strongly believe that when faced with a decision the harder choice is most often the better, yet I tend to favor what is comfortable.
I confess that I waste even when I see how it impacts the rest of the world. I confess that I detest plastic because it poisons the earth in the process of making it, recycling it, destroying it, or drinking from it but will never be able to completely quit using it. I confess that I think this is messed up. I confess that I think all we care about is convenience. I confess that luxury and convenience have been mistaken for necessity.
I confess that I really just want to do what pleases God and believe is right and yet am afraid of what that looks like.
I confess that I probably will not be any different after this, that I will quickly forget this.
I confess that God is just but sometimes we refuse to believe it and so I judge according to my own understanding. I confess that this justice means that there is no compromise and yet we think we can fudge here and there.
I confess that I do not love enough.
I confess I do not know where to go from here, that I do not know how to tie all of this together.

curious mornings

By no means am I a morning person. Anyone that knows me has probably witnessed the fact that I take quite awhile to shake off drowsiness, which comes in the form of being slow to rise and grumpy upon waking. The Proverbs are filled with practical wisdom; one of my favorites is found in 27:14, “If a man loudly blesses his neighbor early in the morning, it will be taken as a curse.” I recall sharing this with my roommate my freshman year, hoping that he may glean something from this Biblical caveat.
As much as I may appear to despise the morning, I actually really like it. So far as I have shifted the hours that I work I have enjoyed greeting the start of a new day. I find that the sun is somewhat like me—it is not an instant riser—it takes its time. Or is it that it wishes to be respectful, to not be so abrupt in urging us out of our slumber?
There is nothing like the crispness of the dawn air; somehow it renews me as it fills my lungs with its purity, unadulterated by the flurry of busyness of the day. There is also a sense of wonder and curiousness as I see color restored as shadows are lifted. It is as if secrets are whispered for all to hear and yet I find myself among the few that are fortunate enough to be up and hear it. What is the secret though?
It is a curious feeling, one that you wish you could share with more. Yet, most of the time when we are up before the sun, we have busied ourselves excessively ALREADY to the point that the purity of the dawn air simply fills our lungs rather than actually permeating our being. The beauty in the way that the mystique of the morning lingers unexplained is so expansive that it is new each day and why lovers draw closer, for they have shared in an eternally ephemeral masterpiece that is theirs to keep.