travel to our remote village involved small birdlike cessnas, hours of dust-covered gravel-roaded driving, with rivers brown and swollen the gatekeepers of time taken.
for some of my schoolmates it was the balance of long, quiet canoes or the sometimes rhythm of outboard motor up the winding serpent rivers that cross papua new guinea like the lines of the faces of squatting, red-mouthed elders.
for others it was hours on a motorboat, crossing the pacific. the sun bounding off endless blue-green water leaving behind it’s color on cheeks and shoulders.
it is this ocean that is the color and depth of love. it seems that all we do, every direction we are headed should be carried like small, skimming boats over endless, deeper than seems possible love.
when we speak. when we act. when we hold up our jesus-the-way-the-truth-and-the-life there should be an ocean shimmering behind us.
love so big that it brings us to knees in the sharing and the receiving and is the already printed out directions we shove into pocket at starting out.
it is this ocean that is the color and depth of compassion.
that whether standing outside of barricaded walls or broken down shacks or glorious castles, compassion comes over and through us like the steady and strong pounding of waves. cease-less as long as god holds the stars and sky in place.
when we face each other, when we hold each other, when we push each other toward right and help each other walk away from wrong, an ocean’s weight of love should drive us. a tide of compassion to be counted on coming behind.
photo courtesy of s.j.
post inspired by the gentle telling of Megan Phelps-Roper’s story.