God on the grates.

I spent the weekend in Toronto. First to see Broken Social Scene and then to hang out with dear friends who I lived with last year at Lifeteams.
I had a couple of unexpected experiences over the weekend. One was unexpected refreshing that came from my conversations with Andrew, Faye, Amanda and Iona. We sat around a table having coffees this morning and filled in on each others lives. I was so stupid thankful that I have friends.

The second part hurt more.

I never could get used to poverty. I try... because it's not practical to weep on Bay street, but I can't numb myself. I think this weekend I realized (all over again), that poverty kills me inside because God wants it to kill me inside. Because poverty kills God inside.

Without that sick feeling that I get in my stomach I would turn my head and be indifferent. Instead... well this weekend I saw panhandlers and all I could think of was Christ. That he loves all these people and we're letting them freeze to death.
Then in my head, every squeegee kid is my brother. Every bag lady has my mothers face. Every man drinking out of a paper bag is my father. Every kid huddled on a grate is like God shivering.

Guys, how can I impart my heart in writing? How can I TYPE this sickening conviction?

I will not stand and do nothing while people freeze on grates in Toronto, and sleep rough in Peterborough. I can't. Nor can I merely weep and congratulate myself on my depth of feeling. Nor will I deem it more important to buy soy steamers, concert tickets and new books of poetry while my fellow humans waste away. To HELL with my greed, and my warped sense of what makes me happy. If God has placed me in a rich country, it is so I can give until it hurts, not so I can buy CD's.

Me? I stand convicted. I am sick of talk.
Hold me to this.