Open the eyes of my heart

The hardest part of being here is seeing.

Seeing the need.

Seeing the disparity.

Seeing the vain devotion.

Seeing the truth.

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And it’s the truth that cuts deepest. The truth that, we Westerners, with our flushing toilets and our climate-controlled houses, and our knowledge that no god sits in judgement from inside the brass idol on our mantle …

We are no better off.

Let me tell you how the mind rebels at the absurdity of a woman offering bananas and rice to a car. Then let me tell you about the sick wave of nausea one feels at the realization that right now, in America, some young father is working an extra job and sacrificing precious time with his sweet, expecting wife and toddler son to finance a $40,000 mini van that will escalate them into the echelon of Real Family.

Please, friends, tell me … which is the more lost soul? Who needs the Gospel more?

We do. All of us.

If I learn nothing more in Nepal, I will always have this: I am the reason Christ hung on the tree. I am a sinner. I need Him, daily, to keep my eyes fixed on the real. The unseen. The eternal.

Yes, there are lost souls all around me, crying out for the Light. But me? I need that Light every bit as much. We all do. Every one of us.

I cannot unsee.