It happened when I was taking a bath in Bournemouth.
Soaking in hot England water, listening to music, reading, praying.
All these spiking images began to fill my mind:
A friend’s infant losing her young sweet life to surgery complications.
Babies the world over growing, breathing, pulsing one minute - but being pulled, torn, punctured from the womb the next.
Children sound asleep in beds being suddenly awakened by sexual predators seeking a sick, twisted thrill.
Little ones being buried alive in avalanches of concrete from earthquakes and war.
All these images and more.
Something welled up in my chest that night as the movie in my mind displayed these scenes.
It wasn’t a normal, or even natural feeling of sorrow I was experiencing in that moment. I’ve felt sadness in my heart over events of this nature for years.
This was different. This was a deep, guttural, devastation.
One that seems to come from a justice loving Lord.
As I felt this vast holy sadness fill up my throat to bursting - I envisioned Christ feeling the same way.
My tears flowed like streams into a hot ocean below.
And I had this overwhelming desire for it all to cease.
For the suffering and madness and torture to stop!
And for a split second I felt utterly helpless.
But then….
I remembered the pen.
I remembered the change and sway that can come for the world when people become advocates by carefully placing words on paper and setting them free to fly.
This was a defining moment for me.....a giving of orders, really.
A commission.
