half mine, half everyone's
Even if you don't believe in miracles, I hope you'll read this:
You and I are truly blessed. I don't think I knew that until I started to volunteer for Social Services at a center for abused children. Nothing could have prepared me for what I've seen. I have gone every day for two weeks to this center. Every second that I am there I am in pain. When I step in the door I am overwhelmed with a sense of despair. Their lives are so desolate, they suffer in silence and the place reeks of torture. When I walk out the door a huge weight is lifted and I can breathe again. I feel so guilty about wanting to leave. Every second that I am not there I am surrounded by people who love me and take care of me and I think to myself that I can't possibly cry any more than I do. I am burdened with the thought of the children who could die because I am not strong enough to save them. I know that I can't solve all the world's problems and that someone else will take care of the children if I leave, but then I see the saddest eyes I have ever seen. I envision these children. I can hear them crying while I sit in my bed in my warm house with my friends and a wonderful meal. I am constantly plagued by my selfishness. I honestly want to help and I truly believe I can make a difference. I can save them and they can save me. It's just hard. Children need miracles.
Even poverty couldn't steal the gentle innocence from her eyes, because all little children believe in miracles. I wish I did.
Every day I go to my room and I fall to my knees and I pray. I tell God all of the bad things I have thought and all of the bad things I have done. I ask God if he can forgive me and then I question him. I question why he continually gives me so much and gives far more deserving people so little. Then I thank him. I think he knows that I try and I think he tries hard for me.
I am on my knees crying so much - one day I will appreciate it all.
Until then...
[an end note on a completely different subject]
To the one I love, the one I abhor, my four-lettered hero:
I hate the way you say it. I live it with such vulnerability and honesty. You talk about it like you read it in a book.
You and I are truly blessed. I don't think I knew that until I started to volunteer for Social Services at a center for abused children. Nothing could have prepared me for what I've seen. I have gone every day for two weeks to this center. Every second that I am there I am in pain. When I step in the door I am overwhelmed with a sense of despair. Their lives are so desolate, they suffer in silence and the place reeks of torture. When I walk out the door a huge weight is lifted and I can breathe again. I feel so guilty about wanting to leave. Every second that I am not there I am surrounded by people who love me and take care of me and I think to myself that I can't possibly cry any more than I do. I am burdened with the thought of the children who could die because I am not strong enough to save them. I know that I can't solve all the world's problems and that someone else will take care of the children if I leave, but then I see the saddest eyes I have ever seen. I envision these children. I can hear them crying while I sit in my bed in my warm house with my friends and a wonderful meal. I am constantly plagued by my selfishness. I honestly want to help and I truly believe I can make a difference. I can save them and they can save me. It's just hard. Children need miracles.
Even poverty couldn't steal the gentle innocence from her eyes, because all little children believe in miracles. I wish I did.
Every day I go to my room and I fall to my knees and I pray. I tell God all of the bad things I have thought and all of the bad things I have done. I ask God if he can forgive me and then I question him. I question why he continually gives me so much and gives far more deserving people so little. Then I thank him. I think he knows that I try and I think he tries hard for me.
I am on my knees crying so much - one day I will appreciate it all.
Until then...
[an end note on a completely different subject]
To the one I love, the one I abhor, my four-lettered hero:
I hate the way you say it. I live it with such vulnerability and honesty. You talk about it like you read it in a book.