You will likely skim this, if you’re like me. We’ve been
trained for this. I am the product of a new generation— a generation constantly
dissecting and absorbing information faster than a mouse click. The lives of my
peers and community flash throughout my day like headlines. Our society is like
bees, constantly swarming over new information. Our sound is the roar of a
hive. Give us everything all at once,
fast, and honey-sweet.
This is why words like civil
war and refugee camp mean everything
and nothing to me. I find myself overwhelmed by news reports. How do I swim
through a daily tsunami of global tragedies? How can I comprehend the struggles
in Iran, Russia, or Syria?
Some people find it easy to detach themselves emotionally,
but I’ve always been the sensitive type. One photo, and I can hear the wail of
a baby, trace the mud caked on my shoes, and feel the dull gnawing of hunger.
But these stories also mean nothing to me. The shear volume
of information we interact with on a daily basis makes it impossible to give
each story a rightful listen. So the hive buzzes on. I swarm, I skim, I reduce,
I forget.
Skimming builds a rather convenient wall for me: the kind
where I can quietly displace my feelings of helplessness, guilt, and confusion.
So I carry on in my secure, somewhat tidy life.
Then I met Dania.
It all started after hearing a speaker from World Relief share
at my church. He challenged us to pray for a country every day for a month. “It
will change your life,” he said, with glowing confidence. He even presented the
funny notion that grief is productive. Productive? So I decided to give it a
try.
I chose Syria, simply because it was in the news a lot. I
couldn’t even locate it on a map. I decided to pray through art, focusing on a
couple photographs or headlines. That’s when I met Dania.
Dania was eleven years old when a shrapnel exploded in her
street. Seeing the peaceful expression on her face shook me. War had become so
normal that she wouldn’t cry. I became acquainted with her as
my pencil traced the subtle lines of her face, and felt the weight of grief in her
brother’s hands as he held her head up. I prayed and I grieved.
And something else
happened. I began to plead and hope for people in a country I had never met. I
wanted to understand more about the God I believe in. I began to read scripture
in a specific way, not in a vague desire for social justice.
"No, this is the
kind of fasting I want: free those who are imprisoned, lighten the burden of
those who work for you. Let the oppressed go free, and remove the chains that
bind people." Isaiah 58:6
Then I began project
number two. Below is the progression:
Day Three
‘(Ubuntu) It is the essence of being human. It speaks of the fact that my humanity is caught up and is inextricably bound up in yours. I am human because I belong.' -Desmond Tutu
‘(Ubuntu) It is the essence of being human. It speaks of the fact that my humanity is caught up and is inextricably bound up in yours. I am human because I belong.' -Desmond Tutu
Day 4
"I have cried
until tears no longer come; my heart is broken. My spirit is poured out in
agony as I see the plight of my people... How can I comfort you? For your wound
is as deep as the sea." Lamentations 2:11,13b
Day 8
"You have kept count of my wanderings,
put my tears in your bottle.
Are they not in your book?"
-Psalm 56:8
"You have kept count of my wanderings,
put my tears in your bottle.
Are they not in your book?"
-Psalm 56:8
At the end of the
month, I finished “Boy In Ruins, Syria.”
30 days of praying for Syria didn’t change the course of
my life. I haven't hopped on a plane and launched a campaign for medical intervention.
But it taught me how to grieve global tragedies differently.
I found a calm place in the beehive, a way to humanize
information inside the roar. Channeling it through art allowed me to feel,
think, and question. The process gave me a shared sense of connection with a
people I have never personally known. In a way, their stories became mine.
And really, is my own story so different than theirs? I've been torn by my own metaphorical wars and displacement, been offered healing and love, and continue to grieve the shattered, left over pieces.
Even though Syria has given me more questions than answers, God felt intimately connected with the process, in everything I came to understand and still don’t. Praying for Syria deepened my faith in His presence, even in the difficult things. I celebrated the good too, such as Syrian communities coming together and children being rescued.
The month ended with my conviction that I don't want my faith in Jesus to be another form of consumerism. I want to disregard apathy for ears that listen, hands that embrace, and feet that walk alongside others. The mess, the ugly, the beautiful, the hope. All of it.
And really, is my own story so different than theirs? I've been torn by my own metaphorical wars and displacement, been offered healing and love, and continue to grieve the shattered, left over pieces.
Even though Syria has given me more questions than answers, God felt intimately connected with the process, in everything I came to understand and still don’t. Praying for Syria deepened my faith in His presence, even in the difficult things. I celebrated the good too, such as Syrian communities coming together and children being rescued.
The month ended with my conviction that I don't want my faith in Jesus to be another form of consumerism. I want to disregard apathy for ears that listen, hands that embrace, and feet that walk alongside others. The mess, the ugly, the beautiful, the hope. All of it.
Now, the roar of the beehive doesn’t overwhelm me.
These tragedies provide more opportunities than before. This is only the beginning of something better.
