“Orphan Sunday” and Other Days that Wreck My Life…

Today, in unison and solidarity, many churches around the nation have set aside denominational discourse to link arms in support of vulnerable children around the world. Recognizing God’s heart bleeds for the broken-hearted, we desire to provide a voice for the voiceless; for those whose lives are oft forgotten and overlooked, for those who are not growing up under the care and tutelage of their parents.

We call this Sunday, Orphan Sunday.

On the heels of super-storm Sandy and the eve of what will undoubtedly be a proud and pompous Presidential election, we pause for a moment to remember those whose voices don’t roar like a ravaging storm or pontificate like Presidential candidates.

Instead of garnering a prominent and protected place in society, the “fatherless” scour for scraps. Scraps of food. Scraps of respect. Scraps of love. Scraps of anything they might need to survive in a world that has robbed them of the basic right of any child – to love and be loved. To care and be cared for. To not only survive, but thrive under the tender arms of a loving family.

It’s days like today that smash into my insulated, comfortable American life and wreck me.

These kinds of days crash into my carefully manicured world and plow over the proverbial picket-fence I have dreamt of since my youth.

My mind expands and my heart begins to beat for something other than myself.  For someone I was never supposed to meet in this lifetime. By all accounts, our lives might have never intersected if it weren’t for the loving pursuit of a father; a heavenly Father who pursues to the ends of the earth and back again.

He pursues them. He pursues me. Each one of us an orphan, lost and alone, utterly unable to restore what once was ours. A right relationship with our father – both in his kingdom here on earth and in the one that is yet to come.

It is only through the cross that true restoration can be attained. The cross of Christ blankets the chasm of our fatherlessness like a supernatural bridge. As I look through the lens of his lavish love, dare to put one foot in front of the other and cross that bridge, I am once again wrecked.

When I commit each day to him, when I invite His voice to be mine – I remain forever changed.

It isn’t just Christmas Sunday or Easter Sunday or Orphan Sunday that paints my pristine world with fifty shades of grace.

It should be this day, that day and every day in between.

As I allow His lens to be my filter – I am wrecked.

For good.


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