Crying Out for Momma

First of all, Thomas is ok.  A number of people have expressed concern, which shows me that you are reading so I'm happy.  Thomas told me that I shouldn't have made the crash sound so bad, but I was just trying to be honest (and grab your attention!).  In the end, though, he is doing fine, he walked quite a bit today and his knee and hand seem to be on the mend.  Also, Cato is once again in good riding shape and will be ready to go tomorrow morning.

Thomas walked a lot today because we went to a park.  The park was rather large and since it was my off-day, I eventually gave up on walking and just sat down in the grass somewhere while Thomas kept walking to check things out.  As I was sitting there eating my lunch, a group of mentally challenged folk came to set up a picnic near where I was.  The group was made up of mostly older people, guided by some other people so my guess is that they came from a home for the mentally challenged.  Seeing older mentally challenged people always pains me because I can't imagine how hard it must be for them to live in situations where someone is always looking after you for their entire life.  They are always under surveillance and in many cases always in need of assistance.  It also pains me when I see the managers with clear expressions of frustration and exasperation on their face as they try to corral the people under their watch and get them to eat and behave and so on.  And it also pains me that part of God's supposedly good creation could live such seemingly fruitless and painful lives.

While thinking about how a God of love could allow any of this to happen, one of the group brought themselves to the ground and starting crying out for their mother.  The person was probably thirty years old, perhaps older, crying out for his mother and needing someone to reassure him that he'd see his mom again soon.

This went on for about five minutes and I was very close to crying.  I'm generally a very aloof person in the sense that I can witness the worst of life without feeling any emotional connection, but there was something about this man crying out for his mother that hit me hard.  I soon realized that my heart was too unstable to witness the man crying without wanting to myself.

Not only have I had hours and hours every day while on the bike to reflect on the beaten nature of slaves, to the point that I'm sure they are crying out for their mothers at all times, but I, too, am beaten.  Certainly, I can't think about the 27 million slaves in the world and not feel some serious sorrow and distress.  But that distress motivates me to work hard to make others aware and, while on this trip, to keep pedaling even when I think that I can't continue.  More importantly, though, a trip like this simply takes a toll on one's mental and spiritual states.  The problem is, I left feeling broken, and I have only become more and more broken with each passing day.

Really, I'm asking for prayers.  I feel like the people closest to me, or that I thought were closest to me, don't really care about me or this trip (no, mother, I'm not talking about you).  Unfortunately that's like a triple affront to me: not caring for me, not caring for me on this trip, and not caring for this trip and therefore the 27 million slaves.  I keep asking myself, "Is it really that hard for someone that claims to care, that claims to be interested, to take five or ten minutes out of their day to read this blog?  Is it really that hard to donate five or ten dollars?"  The more I ask myself these questions, and the more the answer seems to be that it is too difficult for some people, the angrier and the more broken I become.  I feel like Jesus must have.  Jesus lived with the disciples for three years (or maybe one, depending on which gospel you read), but the people that seemed to best understand and to most believe and to put the most effort and time into their faith and to actually care the most are the random people that Jesus talks to and the Roman soldiers.  How ironic.  Now what had previously been only an academic knowledge of that irony is becoming extremely personal.

Last night, our host family, the Mudraks, hosted a young adult group over for dinner from the Hot Metal Bridge church.  They were all great people and I wish that we had thought about getting a picture with all of them, and Thomas and I had a great time (thank you to all of you who were gracious enough to welcome us to your group!  You were truly wonderful!).  We talked a lot, played a game, and then we all prayed together.  And though we were strangers, most of the prayer was focused on our trip and our purpose on this trip.  I shouldn't have been surprised, though.  All night long everyone was very interested in what we are doing, asking us a ton of questions about Polaris Project, the trip itself, the training that went into it, some of the stories that we had, and some mixed laughing/concern over Thomas's recent injury.

If only the people closest to me were like that as well.  Again, our parents and Thomas's girlfriend have all been great, and my closest relatives have been more than gracious in their donations to the Polaris Project, but I have gone well beyond disappointment and we're only a week into the trip.  I wish the trip had some better timing because I was already struggling with my faith, whether I believe in God and how I want to move forward with God, and with how I want to move forward socially with a bunch of people that only appear to have a surface interest or care about me and the massive issue this world has with slavery.

So, I am currently crying out for my momma.  Pray for me, will you?  Pray for all those whom I meet, that they may care and love others like the Hot Metal Bridge folk that we met last night.  And pray that my brokenness does not affect my willpower to pedal on, especially as we make our way through the hills of Pennsylvania and eastern Ohio the next couple of days.