Sometimes, caring about people feels too heavy. One afternoon, I was driving to meet my husband for dinner, my little boys sitting in the back seat. The overcast clouds made life seem gray as I drove down a residential street, near an elementary school. On my left, I saw a young man and woman arguing. I watched the couple carefully as I approached, seeing fear in her face. The man began to beat the woman. The street was full of cars, but no one was stopping.
She could be battered! She could be raped! He has to be stopped! My heart was screaming. I signaled, pulling up next to the car the man was now trying to force the woman into. I slammed on my breaks, rolled down my window, and yelled, “Leave her alone—right now! I’m going to call the police, so you’d better let her go and get out of here!” The young woman broke free and raced toward a nearby home.
By this time I had caused a traffic jam, so I pulled back onto the road and turned the corner. Another driver pulled over and waved to me.
“Is she okay?” she asked, then called the police. Another car pulled up behind us, and I quickly checked if the angry man was coming after me. A gang shooting had occurred on this same block just a few weeks before, and I was realizing the potential consequences for my actions. I sighed with relief that it was another woman. She pulled up next to me and lowered her window.
“Thought I’d let you know that girl got into the house and her boyfriend, or whatever, sped away in his car.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“You bet. I saw it too, but I was too afraid to do anything. I didn’t know what to do,” the unknown woman confessed.
“I know! I didn’t think. I just reacted and prayed,” I said, swallowing my pounding heart that seemed to be beating its way up my throat. The woman with the phone came back and said that the police had just received a 911 call from the house; they were on their way and didn’t need us.
I started to drive. My three-year-old said, “Mom, do you think that man has a gun and will come shoot us?” I started to cry.
God, he could have shot us. He could have shot at me. He could have shot one of my babies instead! But God, my actions were from Your heart. If that were my daughter, I would have wanted someone to do what I did. This burden is so heavy, God. If I see injustice, I act. Guard my family. Give me wisdom. Temper my passion it with your protection.
Still shaking, I drove toward the restaurant where we were to meet my husband. My mind wandered to a news story that I had heard decades ago. Kitty Genovese was brutally attacked as she returned to her apartment. For thirty minutes she screamed for help as her life was beaten out of her, but no one came. The next day, as the police were investigating the murder, they found thirty-eight people who had witnessed the attack. Not one had even picked up the phone to call for assistance. Not one.
God, I can’t walk away. I can’t stay silent, ignoring the hurt in this world. Bridle this passion when it needs bridled and unleash it with all its fury when it needs unleashed. This is Your heart planted in me, so take care of Your heart.
Sometimes, in caring about people, it seems the whole world hangs like a heart-shaped locket around my neck. I treasure the call, but at times the responsibility feels too heavy. It seems heavier when people break their word or fall into sin after you have given them so much time. It seems heavy when you’ve given your all and the first words you hear are critical. It feels heavy when you’ve guarded your integrity, yet your motives get questioned.
Sometimes, the call feels like it is too much to bear. But I know it’s not, God tells me it’s not. “Cast your burden upon Me,” (Ps. 55:22) “My burden is light,” (Matt. 11:30) “be anxious about nothing” (Phil. 4:6). The promises are there, but for my frail heart to embrace them, I have found three things that really help.
1. I remember the cross.
I reread the crucifixion accounts, embracing the verses that recount each nail pounded into Christ's body, each scourge, each mocking and beating, and I remember that He did it all for me. I retrace Christ’s every step for me and, in doing so, gain strength and perspective. Since He went the distance for me, I can take the next step for Him.
2. I remember to thank others.
When I get a letter of criticism, I immediately pull out my stationary and write thank-you letters to those who’ve helped me in the past, to women who’ve given help to other women, or I just thank people in my ministry for faithfully walking with Jesus. I keep writing until my hope returns and my cynicism and discouragement is swept away in a cloud of gratefulness.
3. I remember my past.
Sometimes I tire of the hassle of rearranging my life to help others on their journey of growth. When I do, God reminds me that I was once a hassle. I was an eighteen-year-old woman with lots of questions, lots of energy, and no direction. Tina, the woman who discipled me in junior college, about gave up on me on several occasions. She was often just trying to get me to date the right men and come to Bible study each week! I was a miserable failure at one of my first ministry jobs—making coffee and cleaning out the coffee pot!
I had my own set of excuses. One day, talking with Tina, I ran down the list of excuses about why I couldn’t keep a ministry commitment: it was my birthday, my boyfriend was coming from out of town, he wasn’t a Christian so he might feel uncomfortable at the Bible study, I planned the date before I started discipleship. The list went on. Finally, Tina, grieved in her heart and tired of listening to my pathetic excuses, looked me straight in the eyes. With all the seriousness she could gather, she said, “Pam, who is more important to you—Jesus or your boyfriend?”
“Jesus,” I replied. And the Spirit inside me whispered into my heart, Then why did she have to ask?
God often reminds me of that feeling. I recall just why I am willing to pay the price—Jesus paid the price for me first. He went way beyond the hassle, way beyond the hurt, and into the very grips of hell to bring heaven to me─can I do any less for others?
