Someday when the history books are written and the days going faster and faster each day, my future children will ask me questions. There will be night of sitting up on the counter eating cookie dough at late hours and talking about the world. There will be times they will look at me across the dining room table and at some point, when they get to the point history where they’ve calculated I was alive and kicking, they may ask me the question of, “where were you, mom?”
Where were you, mom… when ISIS was killing Christians in the Middle East?
Where were you, mom… when police brutality reigned and Ferguson was a sea of protests?
Where were you, mom… when 276 Nigerian girls were kidnapped?
Where were you, mom… when there was 27 million people in this world who were victims of human trafficking?
Where were you, mom?
Where were you?
How I will someday respond has been haunting me lately. There’s lots of answers that I am okay with giving. I am okay with telling them about busting my butt in undergrad to become a social worker. I am okay with telling them that I was on my knees – crying to the Creator of this crazy world and begging him to bring heaven to earth because my earth looks nothing like heaven sometimes. I am okay with telling them that I did something by truly loving those of marginalized populations. I would definitely be okay telling them how I joined the Ferguson protests or saw Jesus redeem the hearts of those caught in the sex trade.
What I’m not okay with is the thought of having to someday having to look into my children’s eyes – ones if they’re anything like mine, hold bundles of intensity at times – and have to tell them that I was comfortable.
I hate very little more than the thought of someday looking back and realizing that I was complacent, comfortable, and lazy while there was a world that I was existing in that was so broken, hurting, and torn. To know that I had the Spirit of the Living God inside of me and that I did nothing but keep it to myself – that is my greatest fear.
Someday, I want to teach my children that activism is simple: if you see evil, do something about it.
I want to show them by example. I want them to know that their mother was a mover and a shaker. I want them to hear stories of long fought battles that were won – not in the physical, but in the hearts of people. I want them to tell their friends that their mother was “sort of this crazy activist missionary” in her younger years.
Even if my radicalness is in the context of living in a cozy college town in the Midwest, I don’t want my location to be an excuse. I hope to tell my children of the city that was my fortress, my training grounds for the battles ahead. I look forward to telling them of the valley where I got up close and personal with a really big God, spent long hours learning through trial and error how to help people in need, stuck my nose in a few books, and loved deeply those who surrounded me.
Someday I will tell my children that all I wanted to be when I grew up was a world changer. My daily prayer is that I’m on a path to someday say confidently that when I was young and lived in a world so in need of change, I pursued the destiny of a world changer every day. Maybe I didn’t get to go overseas and do something crazy – but I still was crazy.
I am crazy. And to tell you the truth, I’d rather be crazy than comfortable any day.