I cry a bit. Mostly about things that directly concern myself and my relationships with others.
Today, though, as I scrolled through my news feed and post after post hit on the same deplorable truth, something broke, and I cried with my black brothers and sisters. It’s just…
There was strong temptation to table the cries and blood, to use my being in Ghana as an excuse to ignore the wretched state of the nation I call my home. Thank you, friends, for not letting me. I feel like we’re sitting in the silence of Saturday. I mourn, feel helpless, but stay vigilant and keep my eyes open, hands working and searching and seeking, soul waiting for our resurrection Sunday.
How long, Lord, must I call for help,
but you do not listen?
Or cry out to you, “Violence!”
but you do not save?
Why do you make me look at injustice?
Why do you tolerate wrongdoing?
Destruction and violence are before me;
there is strife, and conflict abounds.
Therefore the law is paralyzed,
and justice never prevails.
The wicked hem in the righteous,
so that justice is perverted.