Confession

I feel comfortable.

We have so much food it is overflowing from the pantry.
We have so many friends we can’t keep up with having them over.
We get to zip off to Portugal or the mountain at a moment’s notice.
We have books and toys and tools.
We have a pizza oven and a pool.
We have access to medical care, education, entertainment.
We have a television, computers, laptops, tablets, phones and a gazillion chargers and cables.
We have camping gear stashed away in the ceiling when there are people without so much as a tarpaulin for protection from the elements.
Even our youngest boys earn more on their paper runs than millions of families are trying to survive on.

I feel uncomfortable.

We know what is happening in the world,
But we can forget.
We have the luxury to ignore.
We have enough to fill our time that we can turn a blind eye.
We can be challenged to own our apathy,
to stop justifying our complacency,
to stop defending our inaction….

And still do nothing.

I don’t want to be in love with *the idea* of helping.
I want to help.
I don’t want to be in love with *the idea* of making a difference.
I want to make a difference.
I don’t want to be in love with *the idea* of sacrifice.
But I am.
I don’t actually want to sacrifice.
I want to be able to stop giving before it hurts.
I want to appease my conscience without changing my lifestyle.
I want to make sure I have enough.
But I’m slow to define *enough*.

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