An interesting schedule of a day resulted in our driving to Dawson Creek after work on Wednesday to take Tim to the bus so he could get to his work. That meant leaving DC at 8:00 pm and arriving home shortly before 9:30. Thankfully, I had my music (and sleeping kids) to keep me company. And what an interesting set of songs did play that night.
It’s no secret that I’ve been wrestling lately. Perhaps my poem a little while ago gave a hint or two. But I’ve been bothered, too, by the words being quoted in Twitter feeds and Facebook memes. I struggle with voicing my own opinion on the subjects, ranging from politics to human rights and back again. I settle for discussing with my husband what my position is and I leave this space empty.
There is a lot of injustice in this world, and when, therefore, should I dance? I would soon grow weary if I raised my voice every. single. time. for every. single. injustice. At some point, my voice would be lost amongst the clutter and the noise that is this world. And to be honest, much of the things that are bothering me today are things taking place in a privileged part of the world, where most human rights are protected, where most of the poor are still rich by much of the world’s standards.
And I know now what my voice is for. As much as I am troubled by the abortion debate, by the lack of love amongst some of our brethren, by the constant streaming of ultra-conservative, ultra-liberal, ultra-extreme images and opinions from various friends of mine, my voice is not meant for the privileged.
My voice is for Africa and places with less hope and a great need for compassion, for education, for inspiration. My voice is for families, my voice is for community. My voice is for love.
(Disclaimer: I am not saying here that voices raised in this place of privilege are doing anything wrong, merely that I personally can no longer justifying adding to them.)