Week 5 of outreach;
While in the outback, I met a little eight-year old girl called Samantha. Her eyes were the brightest, most beautiful I’ve ever stared into. She had a mouth like a sailor and would spray aerosol-can hair dye into a Styrofoam cup and sniff it to get high. She comes from a broken home recognized in the community for domestic violence and her aggression was so severe that at times she genuinely scared me. She didn’t act eight but every now and then, when she thought it would work, she would look up at me as innocent as can be and ask pretty please. She stole my heart and shattered it. The Mission in Glasgow is at the center of prostitution and addiction in a corner tucked away from the rest of the city. Tonight, eight women came in who were known to be working on the street. They all looked different, some more obvious than others. One girl was about to pass out when another leaned over to kiss her on the head, saying not to worry because she’d take care of her. Then Donna walked in. She was older than the others and had chunky rings and bracelets that went half way up her arms. Her earrings had been so heavy for so long that open slits now hung in place of them. She sat down and glanced at me with shining, bloodshot-and-blue eyes buried under makeup that ran too thin to cover so much. I saw Samantha.
Her dead gaze caught mine and I told her that her eyes were beautiful. She smiled shyly, said thank you, and got her food and left.
I don’t know why I’m surprised that faces like these have been engraved in my memory. I can’t fathom the hardness of heart in forgetting. Then I imagine the capacity of a Father’s heart, the tears that freely pour from His eyes every time He gazes at a Samantha or a Donna or a Chelsea.
I wish I could cry for them eternally as He does. I never thought I’d long for such pain, and yet I remember hauntingly what it takes to see change. Someone said that revival is in prayer, and that the reason we don’t see the revival we ask for is because us Christians like to hide in our little prayer closets and cry. We don’t let people see the brokenness they reflect. We don’t reveal the brokenness we see and feel and offer desperately the only answer for. And so ignorance remains.
We yield at the veil the world puts up. Yet imagine the impact of otherwise – if the brokenness I experience in the eyes of Donna were immediately apparent in the tears of my own.
If more people cried God’s tears in the open air, perhaps history could finally cease to repeat itself.