A Mother's Heartache

One of these days, I will find the willpower to stop following the news.  Because lately, it seems so full of hateful words, hateful actions thrown back and forth that it's hard to believe in the existence of kindness.

Becoming a mother the first time taught me how much larger my capacity for love really is, and now that I'm about to do so for the second time, I'm learning how deep my empathy and sorrow for others runs in my heart.  It's hard to feel joy and happiness about the arrival of this baby when every day, I see photos of children who go to sleep on the cold ground with empty bellies, or a mother killed in a clinic whose children will never see her again.

My heart breaks at the thought of my children being taken away from me, or of myself dying and leaving them too soon.  How can a world that God created such beauty in be so terrible and cruel at the same time? We were warned in the Bible that the world would be difficult, but I had no idea it would be because of the horrifying things we humans do to each other. 

Christmas draws closer, a season where warm, loving feelings and charitable acts increase many times over.  Even still, it's all tainted with this dark, bitter hatred on this issue or towards that group of people.  Everyone is pointing fingers and refusing to see the truth behind God's ultimatum:

"Love one another, as I have loved you."

As a mother, my heart aches for those in suffering, and I wish I had the superpowers to do more.  I wish I could bring back the mothers to their children, and give a roof and a hot meal to those who need it.  I wish I weren't so damn crazy and pregnant that almost my entire focus is on myself right now. 

But the best I can do now is hold my husband and daughter tight, savor the baby kicking in my belly, and hold on for as long as I can.  And as always, I can pray.  I don't know what to ask for God to do, but He knows what is needed.  So if anyone out there is reading this, that's all I'm going to ask of you as well.  I have no idea who or where you are, but chances are you're in a good position to bring a little kindness back into this world in some small way. 

So please do, and have a Merry Christmas.

Open Letter to the Refugees

         Hello, there.  We've never met face to face, but you've been on my mind a lot these past few days.  My heart and mind have been broken and stretched and stitched back together more than they ever have before, searching for answers to many questions.  I live in a small, very conservative Southern town where being open-minded is often ridiculed as naive, so I feel this is the only way to communicate my thoughts and feelings outside my family and close friends. 

         My name is Becky Norris, and I am a housewife and mother.  My husband and I have one daughter, with a second due in two weeks.  In what should be a joyful time of preparation for a new baby and the holiday season, instead I find myself grieving for people whose faces I've only seen on my computer screen.  I can't even begin to imagine or understand the horror and pain you've been through, seeing your homes, neighbors, and loved ones destroyed.  I've never known what it's like to try and sleep at night without knowing if a bomb will fall before morning and kill you.  I don't know the anguish and worry of trying to keep my children safe from armed terrorists walking the streets. 

          I have not lived a wealthy life, but I have lived a privileged one.  My husband makes enough for us to live in a cozy, clean (mostly!) house, have plenty of food and clothes, medical care, and just a little to save away.  I try and think of what we would do if all that were suddenly ripped from us, and we were forced to run across the state of Arkansas to try and survive.  I can't.

         I know it is highly unlikely that any of you heading for the US will end up in our little town, and if you did I'm afraid most people here would look at you with suspicion, fear, and even hatred.  You might have seen what many Americans are saying on social media, that they do not want you here because you happen to look a bit like the terrorists committing these unspeakable acts you are running from.  But if you do happen to find your way here, I hope you will forgive them.  Most have never been outside this country, let alone met anyone from a foreign land or a religion different than their own.  All they know is what they've been told, to be afraid and to lash out at what they don't understand.

          I see the pictures of you with your children, struggling in camps and sleeping on pieces of cardboard on the ground.  I see your eyes darkened by fear and sadness, and I wish I could do more from my little house on a quiet street.  I wish I could pay to fly you and your children here to the mountains, put cots and sleeping bags in my living room, and give you a safe, dry place to sleep.  I would love nothing more than to invite you into my tiny kitchen for a big pot of homemade soup and freshly baked bread.  I wish I could hear your story from your own lips, and then cry and pray with you for an end to the madness.  I wish I could see my daughter sharing her toys with your children, and hear them laughing and playing together. 

          But more than anything in this world, I wish that more around me felt the same way.  I wish more people in my clean, quiet little town would realize the excruciating pain and suffering you've survived, and want to welcome you with open arms.  I wish the many churches in this town would open their doors to feed and clothe you with unlimited compassion and generosity.  Sadly, this likely won't happen. 

          In the meantime, if you do happen to find your way to this tiny mountain town, please remember that there are a very few of us who want you to have a safe place.  And I will fling my doors open wide, give you a big hug, and sit you down for a hot meal.

          Until then, know that I am thinking of you very much, and praying for your safety and well-being with all my heart. 

             -Becky Norris

John 21:15-17 NIV

15 When they had finished eating, Jesus said to Simon Peter, “Simon son of John, do you love me more than these?”

“Yes, Lord,” he said, “you know that I love you.”

Jesus said, “Feed my lambs.”

16 Again Jesus said, “Simon son of John, do you love me?”

He answered, “Yes, Lord, you know that I love you.”

Jesus said, “Take care of my sheep.”

17 The third time he said to him, “Simon son of John, do you love me?”

Peter was hurt because Jesus asked him the third time, “Do you love me?” He said, “Lord, you know all things; you know that I love you.”

Jesus said, “Feed my sheep."