I got to hold a baby yesterday. She was small, the size of a football, and weighed just about as much. 6 months old, with soft, dark skin the color of cinnamon, and large, innocent eyes. Her fingernails were minuscule and delicate, dotting the ends of her pudgy fingers like periods at the end of a sentence. As she sat in my lap, I buried my face in her foamy black hair, smelling roses from whatever soap her mother had washed her in. She gurgled appreciatively at my affection, her toothless mouth grinned alien-like. She was an alien, for she does not belong to this world of pain. She must have come from a different place, a soft, special place, that felt like comfort and warmth. The joy that bubbled out of her, her bright brown eyes and her naive little smile, they come from a different world, not this one, where so often there isn’t anything to smile about. 

I say that from the perspective of someone who doesn’t believe in heavenly dwellings prepared for children of God; I say that from the perspective of someone who doesn’t know the magnitude of this promise we were given thousands of years ago. I confess that coming on the World Race I thought salvation was about the victims of grace; I thought it was about the people being rescued. From that angle, every evil is the rejection of an angry God, every lamentable event is evidence of His wrath. But Salvation is about the Savior, it is His story we live in, and His purpose we are destined to fulfill. Living in the DR has taught me that life is not about me, nor any other human being. It is about the One who gave it to us, the One in whom we move and breathe and have our being. As much as I adore the little girl I hold in my arms, my God loves her infinitely more, deeper and more richly than I could ever understand. 

Why is she born here, while I grew up wealthy, with every need provided, every desire attainable? What is the difference between us, really, besides the disparity of affluence? Am I worthy to ask that question, am I even deserving of an answer? For God is in heaven and I am on earth, this footstool of His throne room. And yet, though I am small and He is everything wonderful and mighty, He did answer. For the Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit (Psalm 34:18). He listens to our complaints and patiently endures our pretense. The answer has come, in the form of a child, soft-skinned and pure, physically frail, but in the substance of deity all the same. The answer to the pain and imbalance in the world is Jesus, His name is Jesus. Say His name, because sometimes that is all you can say. Say His name when it all gets too much for you, when you don’t see the good, when all you feel is pain. Say His name over these children, that they may know Him before they can walk, that He may be with them as He is with you. 

When you remember me in your prayers, call down blessings on the Dominicans and the Haitians. Weep, mourn, and cry aloud to our Father, for He is a compassionate God who listens to your intercession on behalf of these people. Pray for their physical needs, but pray even more ardently for God to make Himself apparent to them, for God to make His home among them, and for them to know that He is their Savior. Pray for provision and protection, for unity and joy. Pray that these people would love the Lord more and more every day, as I have learned to.