Worth the Risk

M

y mind wanders. It’s been some years, and I still can’t stop thinking about those people on the reservation—God’s people. In my mind’s eye, I’m 19 years old again. I see myself dragging my weary body from my bed as I attempt to mentally prepare myself to step again into the small schoolroom. Outside, a high desert windstorm blurs the barren landscape into a whirlwind of red dust. My heart pounds with dread as I cross the short distance to the school door.

If I’m honest, I’m scared of my students. I’m five-foot-zero-inches tall, and one of our third graders is nearly as big as me and stronger.

 We’re only on the first subject of the day when he begins shouting with defiance. He rips the pages out of his math book, then shoves his desk across the room, which makes a resounding thud as it crashes to the ground. The room falls silent, everyone wondering what will happen next. All eyes are locked on my fellow teacher and me.

Truth is, he’s a bully. He knows how to be a bully because he is bullied. He knows how to manipulate because he is manipulated. My heart hurts for him. He’s abused and controlled and does the same to others in a desperate attempt to survive.

My mind wanders to another scenario. This time, I’m in church. In the front row sits a woman. I hadn’t seen her before, but I was later told who she was. Weeks later, I learned the heartbreaking story that is a common reality for these dear people. She had been drinking, and a church friend took her home to ensure she arrived safely. Unfortunately, she never made it inside her front door. She froze to death on her porch—another victim of alcohol, another precious life destroyed and gone. My heart hurts deeply.

Again, my mind jumps. I see myself in the little room with the yellow wall. I grab an armful of wood and start a fire so it will be warm inside for the kids. I’m exhausted, but my heart is warmed when they arrive. I hear their little voices calling me to push them on the swings before I tell them Bible stories and do activities with them. These little people come from abusive families, none of them free from pain. Some deal with self-harm, others have experienced family members who have committed suicide, and most, if not all, know way more than they should ever have known.

I feel privileged to be someone they open up to and trust. Once a month, I get to look into the eyes of their addicted parents and tell them Bible stories, too. I get to tell them that there’s hope and that Jesus cares deeply about them. My heart is full when I have the opportunity to love these people. Yet it aches, because sometimes love hurts.

I remember these people, their stories, and the truth of the dark realities in which they live. I share their stories not to be discouraging but to expose how desperately they need to be loved like Jesus loves, to experience grace that can set them free.

I share their stories to inspire love. Yes, sometimes love hurts, but it’s always worth the risk. As C. S. Lewis says, “To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly be broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket—safe, dark, motionless, airless—it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable.”