I am tired of my own inner voice right now. The one that is constantly pushing me to check the news and catch up on what is happening in and around Goma, DRC right now. The voice that tells me to keep my eyes open and let my heart ache when all I want to do is turn and run for the pantry. I'm tired of living with half my heart here and the other half spread out over the African continent, with pieces in Zimbabwe, South Africa, Zambia. There's seemingly not enough to stretch to the DRC and maybe that's what the pain is...that stretching of my heart to encompass as much of the DRC as I can fill it with.
I'm not going to lie, yesterday, I read the news and thought about the kids and care workers in the areas where the rebels are retreating to...and I could not even muster prayer. I crawled into my unmade bed at 5 pm and slept fitfully for an hour and a half. I wanted to pray. I just didn't have words or even sounds anymore for the things I'm asking of God. Why is it so difficult when I am in the comfort of my own home, to find the words to speak on behalf of those who don't have the luxury of resting. Hungry. Cold. Thirsty. Tired...so very tired. And terrified. That those around them that claim in the media to have their best interests at heart, in reality are raping, traumatizing and destroying those they claim to be there to protect.
What is my role in this if I can't even muster the words to pray? I'm relying on the idea that tears can be translated.