Why Me

Today as I was nursing Lilah before her nap, I felt an overwhelming sense of thankfulness at the little person wrapping her little arm around my waist. But that feeling of thankfulness was followed by another familiar question: why me?

I’ve wondered this at so many times throughout my life, both the good and the bad. But now as a mother I wonder: Why have I been given a child when others struggle to have one? Why am I able to nurse my little girl in peace while other babies are ripped from their mothers arms at the border? Why do I sit here a beautiful beach house while others sit amidst the dirt and grime of poverty, begging for food to feed their babies.

Why me?

I’ve been asking questions as early as I can remember. I’ve always been obsessed with fairness, justice. I don’t understand why some of us suffer more than others. Why some of us claw our way through life while others float by.

So many times I just stand there, look up, and ask “what the hell are you doing?”

Sometimes It’s in the midst of my own suffering; the deepness of my own thoughts has caused me much pain. But the older I’ve become, the more I’ve come to recognize my own privilege. The more my heart breaks for those who were given something different, a life I could never even imagine.

And while I believe that there is purpose in it all, that all things work together for good (Romans 8:28), I am still saddened, outraged, shocked over the things I see going on all around me. More often than not I cannot grasp that any of it is good.

I find myself praying that I will see things clearly. That my heart would break for those things in this world that really matter. That God would lead me into dark places without fear, that he would use my privilege to love others. If not that, what have I been given all of this for?

I wrestle with wanting to stay in my bubble. Wanting to avoid fear and pain, failure. But that bubble is also a prison that will rob me of true life.

Why me? I have no clue. But I will not waste it.