God help and forgive me, I wanna build something that’s gonna outlive me.

Hamilton.

A life-changer. Full of fun and humor, but its effect is no joke. I think it really might have changed my life. Hard to tell, after only five days. But… Non-Stop. The Cabinet Battles. Hurricane. It’s Quiet Uptown. I didn’t just hear these songs, they moved through me, and I was not the same woman when they were done.

Lord, guide the change, and keep it well in your own hand. I want no empty mark, I want no hollow legacy. There is important, and there is truly important. There is good, and there is your goodness. I would not tangle the threads in my fumblingly human fingers.

But what am I to do? I am no genius. If I held in my hand the power to shape the nations and shake the world, would I even have the vision to shape them? Would I even know which way to shake? I have no passionate vision for solving the world’s ills, or even aiding one ailing nation. What am I to do, even if I were to “write day and night like tomorrow won’t arrive, write day and night like you need it to survive”?

I feel more like:

I don’t even know what to do with those Romanian people who ring the bell and ask for money and food in broken German and if you give them anything they press for more and try to edge into the house. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do for them, what’s right to do about them, so what am I supposed to do for or about the world?

I know what I want. I know I want sex slavery to end. I know I want to crush it. I want the situations that create fields ripe for the slaver’s harvest to cease, or to be better seen to afterwards. I want people to know what sex slavery and coercion can look like in a person. I want those who purchase sex to be driven to empathy, to compassion. I want refugees from any kind of disaster to know what exploitation looks like when it confronts them. I want exploitative brothels to be busted, and the workers to be freed. I want the freed workers to be looked after, cared for, to be given healers for the body, mind, and soul, and to be granted passage to a new life—which means being situated with a new community, and/or a new career.

I want to solve war.

I laugh, you laugh, we all laugh ‘til kingdom come, because until it does, there will be war and it won’t be solved.

Screw it. We are to see your will be done and your kingdom come, on earth as it is in heaven, and if we only pray it and never move towards it, are we in imitation of Christ? And therefore, are we Christian at all?

I want to solve war. I want to end it. I want peace. I want to change the way the nations think about conflict. And for that–for that to be a want, not a wistful wish–I must be educated. I’ve got to understand what’s actually happening, at every level. And total comprehension is impossible, but that doesn’t mean a person shouldn’t try to understand. From the trembling underpinnings of the universe, to the crux on which human history hangs, to the blood on the ground today, to the bird’s eye view, to the street-level view, I’ll seek understanding. What is wisdom, what is knowledge, if it can’t be applied to corporeal situations? I’ve long played in the ethereal and the theoretical, but what if the catch-22 questions and the big-picture dilemmas had real lives in the balance? Can I find a way to save any? Can I find the wisdom to cheat the questioners’ cheating questions?

God. God! I want to do something. I want to learn enough to do something. I don’t want to go before I’m prepared; to create more chaos. I want to be ready to do the right thing when I go. Go where? Go for what? We’ll see, we’ll see. What will I be true to in the weary light of morning? What resolution will hold past tonight? God! Let me be true. Let me seek your face, let me seek you here, and if this is the next way you’ve given me to do it, let it not slip through my fingers when this first burst is through.

And so now, days after I wrote the first passionate, nervous burst of words that formed the meat of this journal-letter, I still wonder. But I’m pressing in. How can I help the refugees? In the grand scheme, I don’t know yet, I’m still thinking. But I’ve discovered where I can help put care packages together. Would that be enough? I’ve written thousands more words of a novel, a novel that matters. Does it matter enough? Is it big enough? It’s what I can do. I’ve edited and posted this piece, here. On a backwater blog? A piece that doesn’t even know if it’s a prayer, or a call to action, a Hamilton advert, or another buzzfeed pop culture gif set-beset list? What will that do?

I don’t know. But if I can but do all things I can do, through Christ that strengthens me–that would be enough.

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