Little Pebbles in my Sandals

My friend in Tunesia was just mobbed. Thankfully all they took was her necklace, and not her neck. She is American, after all. Across the bay from their home, another friend witness the sinking of a boat of refugees. In an eastern village, another friend deals with the aftermath of an honor killing. The girl went to the police, but they escorted her home on pretense of collecting her things, only to stand by while the family stabbed her to death for complaining publicly. Round me swirls this world of very real events. I walk the redlight district and see fresh waves of young men being transvestites and young women populating the brothels. At the airport I stand in line behind fresh young faces being trafficked in from Latvia, and I can do nothing because the officials will do nothing, and no one can prove that the madam with them is selling them. She knows her ropes too well, and they believe her lies.

In my neighborhood women scream at night, but they are told they must be beaten enough to merit paradise, so they apparently must be making the best of that deal. In this world of the east,  the lullaby for a son is:

After the heat and the bitterness, and after the sixth of the month, After our enemies had rejoiced at her pain and said, “There is a stone in her tummy!” The stone is in their heads! And this overwhelms them. Go! O bearer of the news! Kiss them and tell them, “She has borne a son!”

But the lullaby for a newborn girl is:

When they said “It’s a girl!” - that was a horrible moment. The honey pudding turned to ashes and the dates became scorpions. When they said, “It’s a girl!” the cornerstone of the house crumbled. And they brought me eggs in their shells and instead of butter, water.

The midwife who receives a son deserves a gold coin to make earrings. The midwife who receives a son deserves a gold coin to make a ring for her nose. But you, o midwife! Deserve thirty strokes of the stick! Oh! You who anounce a little girl when the censorious are here!

A Book of Middle Eastern Food by Claudia Roden p.387-388

I go out on my balcony, nestled in the branches of the highest pine in the neighborhood. Although the air is heavy with someone burning trash and plastic bags in their attempt to stay warm, and the sound waves are thick with traffic, out here I take a deep breath and refocus. Yes, today people will grumble about little things, like which way the toilet paper roll is on. Others will invest hours in the football game. Many will loose hours lonely in a sea of strangers on the subway. But all these are but pebbles in a sandal... compared to the realities of grief and pain these women face. 

I go out on my balcony to gain perspective. The reality is, God raised us up with Christ and seated us with him in the heavenly realms in Christ Jesus. (Ephesians 2:6). So, rather than feel that this heavy load is mine, bring it to the Throne room, where I have direct access. I turn to my God, who cares, through me, and let the Holy Spirit groan through me, and ask that God's Kingdom come here, on earth, into these situations, as it is in Heaven. Then I can go on. I can love the one God puts in front of me, and trust Him to bring breakthrough for those I ask Him to. He is that good.