Weighed Down

Heavy.

That is how I feel today.

Heavy with the weight of the world and with the recent verdict in the Ferguson case.

Heavy with the knowing that once again, an entire demographic has been reduced to no justice, no voice, no hope.

It weighs me down.

And I want to rail and spit and curse and blame and judge.

But I also want to numb, to quiet, to avoid.

I want to hug my sons and cry because I know that racial disparity in the world has not improved at all since the abolition of slavery.

The slavery just looks different now.

There are systems instead of slave masters. Prisons instead of chains.

How can so many be so unaware of the state of the nation? Of the world?

How can we walk the streets with so many people who are hurting, burdened, oppressed, persecuted, hunted....and yet, feel nothing?

Is it the steady stream of noise? The ever-elusive American dream we're chasing? Something shiny in the store window? A hunger pain in our bellies?

What is causing us to ignore the truth and turn away to meet our own selfish, already-well-met needs?

We are all created equal, but that's where the equality ends.

That is the cold, hard truth in America.

You, stay in your ghettos and live like the criminals you are. You, don't try to cross the border into my country and steal my job and raise my taxes.

You aren't welcome here.

You aren't valued here.

You will not survive here.

This racial divide, this economic disparity, this lack of opportunity and generational circumstance - It's been weighing on me heavily as we approach the court date in February when we will find out if the boys' parents' rights will be terminated.

Here's the ugly truth that goes along with this: I am better. We are better. We are the better choice to raise these kids. We are a married couple with two incomes. We own our home, have college degrees, belong to a large, tight-knit community of church, friends and family. We are upstanding citizens in our our right. We have everything to offer the boys.

Except we don't.

We're not their family.

And we're not their culture.

And we cannot possibly understand or replace or manufacture those things to make the sting of their removal from that life any less painful.

We are the better choice because we had the opportunities to become who we are.

And for that, we might be granted these children permanently.

My mommy heart is both hopeful, and heartbroken.

Their mother and father didn't have a chance in the world.

And my only hope, my only prayer, is that because of Jesus, they do have a chance. They can become other people.

Or is that just me, listening to my grumbling belly, avoiding the truth that maybe they can't?