It never ceases to amaze me when I discover that it's been over a month since I last updated this thing. I have to say, a lot has happened since my last post... some good, some bad. My friends and I got the house we really wanted (unless it falls through last minute, but let's hope it doesn't). I graduate in four weeks, one month (before which I have to finish my systematic theology paper, the last 2/3 of my senior thesis, and countless other menial tasks)... then off into the excellent job market, ha! It's a bit crazy though, I've lost both of my minimum-wage jobs (one of which paid me less than minimum wage, but I won't get into that), and I'm staring down the barrel of life after college. Fortunately, I have my internship with Emmaus lined up, so I've got a year before I have to panic. Ironically, I turned down a six-figure income a couple weeks ago, and it's been on my mind ever since. It would have required me to abandon my internship in Chicago to sell cars... like that's gonna happen. The funny thing is, the offer will most likely still be on the table when I return from Chicago, but I'll figure that out when the time comes.
All that is pretty much pointless though. I have to say, some of the things I've encountered the past two weeks have made me acutely aware of the brokenness around me. One girl told me about how she was raped, and an hour later another friend of mine told me he might have HIV. Today as I was driving home from work, after picking up what is likely my last paycheck, I saw a middle-aged woman standing on the corner with a makeshift sign made from an old Fed-Ex box... on it was the picture of an adorable baby girl, with the words "Burial Fund" scrawled across the top. Normally I'm not too moved by people asking for handouts on the street corner, but this broke my heart. I parked the car near the closest ATM and withdrew my last $20 before depositing my last paycheck, and went to meet the woman. The girl's name was Erica. She had pneumonia, and the doctors forgot to turn her over, so she drowned in the fluid in her own lungs... 18 months old. The funeral costs would be $4,000, and this woman, Erica's grandmother, had no choice but to stand on the street corner collecting dollar bills from passersby.
I don't know why things like this happen, and I hate knowing that from a theological or pastoral standpoint, there is no answer. I suppose that if there was an answer, Erica's death wouldn't be the tragedy that it is... maybe it's supposed to be tragic. Maybe having the answers would cheapen or belittle the sorrow people experience when they are raped, or diagnosed with life-threatening illness, or lose their 18-month-old granddaughter.
All that is pretty much pointless though. I have to say, some of the things I've encountered the past two weeks have made me acutely aware of the brokenness around me. One girl told me about how she was raped, and an hour later another friend of mine told me he might have HIV. Today as I was driving home from work, after picking up what is likely my last paycheck, I saw a middle-aged woman standing on the corner with a makeshift sign made from an old Fed-Ex box... on it was the picture of an adorable baby girl, with the words "Burial Fund" scrawled across the top. Normally I'm not too moved by people asking for handouts on the street corner, but this broke my heart. I parked the car near the closest ATM and withdrew my last $20 before depositing my last paycheck, and went to meet the woman. The girl's name was Erica. She had pneumonia, and the doctors forgot to turn her over, so she drowned in the fluid in her own lungs... 18 months old. The funeral costs would be $4,000, and this woman, Erica's grandmother, had no choice but to stand on the street corner collecting dollar bills from passersby.
I don't know why things like this happen, and I hate knowing that from a theological or pastoral standpoint, there is no answer. I suppose that if there was an answer, Erica's death wouldn't be the tragedy that it is... maybe it's supposed to be tragic. Maybe having the answers would cheapen or belittle the sorrow people experience when they are raped, or diagnosed with life-threatening illness, or lose their 18-month-old granddaughter.
