I hope you know what it’s like to hold the hand of a homeless child in Tondo,
walk through make-shift living spaces and past people crammed on the streets
to teach kids who can’t even afford to go to public school,
because they’re either orphaned or their parents are poor;
flood waters swirl underneath your feet and your privileged self isn’t quite sure what to do,
except to hold the hand of a child who wants to give you a piece of puto,
because it may be her only food for the day
but she wants to share since she still has two.
I hope you know what it’s like to stare into the eyes of a widow
as you distribute excess clothes you no longer think about anymore
and she thanks you profusely with a tremor in her voice
because the nights are getting cold and all her other clothes are torn.
I hope you know what it’s like to minister to someone who has been stabbed seven times on the streets
after she left her tribe to find some relief but all the city gave her was grief,
and you try to explain the grace of God yet she couldn’t find it in her to understand
because she’s glad you came now, but why only now when you could have come then?
I hope you think and consider,
“if I was in their position, how loud will I cry for help?
How would I need the church to come through for me in this situation
if I was in their shoes and I have nothing left?”
I hope as your heart breaks over injustice,
you don’t immediately point fingers or shake your fists at God
because we can be keyboard warriors and say all we want,
hold our opinions,
“keep quiet” or “speak louder”
as if the argument was just about either
but in the first place, before all of this,
did we ever really fight for them;
did we ever do enough?
And now that we know what we know now,
what can we do to show them more of His love?