Discontent

The following passage is from an article written by Heather Coaster. She is a missionary in Bolivia who attatches herself to woman whos intractable poverty has lead them into the sex industry. Read the full article here, and the website its found is awesome.


It’s such a convenient conversation. Sure, it strikes me. I read the staggering numbers, attach the unfathomable data to a story just to make it personal, and the somatic injustice rises up in my throat or turns in my stomach or threatens to keep me from sleep. There’s a reminder again that things are not the way they’re supposed to be, that all is not quite right. Iam bothered by a sense somewhere between restlessness and calling. So I write essays and maybe even checks and I think about writing a letter to my Senator. I read the book or pick up the latest New York Times Magazine. Over a drink I discuss the theological, social and economic roots and implications. I pride myself in being aware. I appease my social conscience, thinking that my conversations and benefit dinners are all contributing to some global solution.

And maybe they are. God, I pray they are.

And I keep eating. I even end in dessert. I close the book, put a The End on the story, toss it all aside, pull the sheets back and climb into bed. There’s not much more I can do, not tonight. And lucky for me, I don’t have to. I have the unfathomable luxury of walking away, of signing off, of saying good night. While my conversations are coming to very neat, concise closes, she’s tucking her kids in, putting her shoes on and taking the rest off. The red glow of her night is on and she’s tossed from one set of dirty hands to another. There are rules in place, rules against going without protection, rules against sexual violence. But once her door closed, the only rule is his desire. She only knows that tomorrow her kids will again be hungry, and this is the cost of her love for them. Yes, it matters today. It matters tonight, because there are still six hours until morning. And while we can afford those six hours, she cannot.

If all I have to offer her is conversation, awareness, words, then yes, I will give the rest of my life to the talk. But its not. It can’t be. It’s not all I have and it’s not enough.