When I was a young man I would NEVER have believed this to be true. NEVER! EVER! I chaffed at personal injustice. I railed against slights both personal or professional. I fussed and fumed and fought against acceptance. But I believe it - and practice it - now. Not perfectly, of course, and I can still get uppity in my kitchen when there's no one else around to hear me curse. For decades, one of my go to affirmations was: Illegitimi non carborundum. The mock Latin for "Don't let the bastards get you down" rolled off my tongue regularly. Today, I still think it is true, but rarely have a need to say it out loud.
Mostly, I have checked out of the drama. The need to prove myself. Or be in charge. Or even make much of a difference. I am trying, in whatever time I have left in this realm, just to be at peace with who I am. That isn't to say that I ignore injustice. Or absent myself from taking a stand. That would be immoral for I follow the way of Jesus who embraced the unloveable, lifted up the beaten down, cherished those who had been forgotten and listened to the heart of each person he encountered. So many people all around me have no one to listen to them. No wonder they get huffy and on a soap box when given the chance: there is a ton of pain locked up inside. But more often than not, they aren't given a chance to be heard so they slink around the shadows knowing that their voices are not wanted and their presence embarrasses those in power.
To be honest, I feel like that sometimes, too when I have to deal with those who run our health insurance. They are all lovely and helpful people. But for the life of me I can't figure out WTF I need to pay sometimes or how much it costs or how I make a payment on-line! I am lost. Bewildered. Powerless. These days I believe the best thing I can do in this world on fire is to be quiet. And listen. Listen to those people no one else wants to hear. Listen to those souls who are on the periphery. Listen to the beloved of Christ who have been forgotten and beaten down. Because that's all I really have to give anyway: a little bit of time and a willingness to hear their story.
After practicing music today for a few upcoming gigs, I read this poem - and went shopping because the pension check finally cleared the bank. I prepared a simple meal of salmon and rice for dinner and felt like it was enough.
Seek his hidden cause of trouble.
Feed your enemy's children.
Learn their word for home.
Repair their well.
Learn their sorrow's history.
Trace their lineage of the good.
Ask them for a song.
Make tea. Break bread.
(Kim Stafford, "Champion the Enemy's Need")
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