Punching Bag

My knuckles were turning white.  I could hear my teeth grinding together.  A temporary wave of satisfaction pulsed through me as the rock I had just kicked soared across the parking lot.

I needed a punching bag and I needed it now.

It was the very first class of our Children At Risk School, and just an hour into the next three months of my life, my heart was already being broken and challenged to the injustices that children face.

Our speaker for the week, Janna Moats, had shown us a video about children with disabilities in Greece.  Rejected and disowned at birth by their society, government, culture, and most of all their parents, these little people are given a life sentence for a crime they cannot not prevent: their existence.

Their punishment?  To be locked in cages, tied to their cots, neglected, unloved, and forgotten until death.  No treatments.  No interaction.  No love.  No life.

What could I do now?  Shed a couple tears, write an emotional journal entry, lift up a short prayer for the benefit of those disabled kids?  Was that all I could do?

No.  I’m here to hear the cries of the helpless, to open my eyes to the victimizing evil, to feel the pain and heartache of the broken.  But most of all—beyond perceiving the need—I'm here to take action, and to do it effectively with perseverance.

So here we go.  I’m listening to my Coach.  I’m studying my target.  I’m strapping on my boxing gloves.  Lemme at ‘im.