Matamoros

      "... to 'do justice' means to go to places where the fabric of shalom has broken down, where the weaker members of societies are falling through the fabric, and repair it. This happens when we concentrate on and meet the needs of the poor.

     How can we do that? The only way to reweave and strengthen the fabric is by weaving yourself into it. Human beings are like those threads thrown together on a table. If we keep our money, time, and power to ourselves, for ourselves, instead of sending them out into our neighbors' lives, then we may be literally on top of one another, but we are not interwoven socially, relationally, financially, and emotionally. Reweaving shalom means to sacrificially thread, lace, and press your time, goods, power, and resources into the lives and needs of others."

- from Generous Justice by Timothy Keller

I had never been to Matamoros.

I cross the US/Mexico border pretty much every week. I am accustomed to it. I don't get anxious about red and green lights at the bridge. I am used to la policia at the end of the bridge, with their automatic weapons ready. I am used to the traffic, the merging and accelerating and quick stops. I am used to the signs, and to the stores. I am used to the differences I can barely put words to, but those things that are distinctly different than just one mile across, on the other side of the river.

But I hope that I am never comfortable with poverty.

Not just material poverty, though that stands out to my comfortable American eyes.

No, I also hope that I am never complacent in the face of spiritual poverty, in the places where the most vulnerable need justice and grace and the promise of hope only the Savior who died on the Cross can bring.

This week we visited a neighborhood, a rough neighborhood, but certainly not the poorest neighborhood in Matamoros, not by far. The roads were mostly paved. Homes are connected to the city sewage system. Nearly every home has electrical connections. But this neighborhood falls far from the relatively comfortable standards of even most poverty you might see in the US. The homes are cinder block, typically not painted or "finished." The floors are cement. The roof is probably tin. The windows are few. The "yard" is non-existent on the postage stamp lot.

We stopped at a property where Sunday school is being held, but there are no chairs, so adults and kids crowd under a roof to escape the midday sun. When we visited, in the middle of the day, in the middle of the week, the neighbors were all home; men leaned against the wall across the street. Women pushed infants in strollers. Dogs lie lazy on the sidewalk. The cart and horse of the basuero are in the empty lot. There are not many jobs. The next door neighbors have chickens for cockfighting. The older lady across the street quietly thanks us for bringing her a new-to-her pair of shoes, a pair that might be more comfortable for her.

A teen girl, stopping by before heading to the afternoon session of school, told us her grandmother was not well, suffering. She has high blood pressure, and can't afford the medication prescribed to help her. We stopped to visit, and found her in a small room, fan blowing. She spends the day on a mattress, tv on, sister nearby. We prayed with her, and she thanked us for it.

We visited a family that hosts a neighborhood church on their property. They meet in the "driveway," but would like to extend the roof to cover farther. They need more chairs- theirs were taken when a pastor left for another church. But where will the funds come from? They show us gracious hospitality, quick to bring us cold drinks and push chairs under the shade for us.

As we drive the road to another bridge, farther west down the border, to cross back over to the US, we hear stories. Children go to school hungry and despise the weekend because they won't have that one certain daily meal. Kids are bringing their friends to church. The narcos run the neighborhood, but for now they will protect. Neighbors watch out for one another and know who is hurting and who is sick. There was a shoot out over on that corner there last week. I can barely keep it all straight. Like Job, I wonder, “Where is the way to the dwelling of light, and where is the place of darkness..."?

In all this, what can I possibly do? What is my part? It all seems so big and I'm just one person and what is even possible?

How quickly I forget! The psalmist reminds me,

"If I say, “Surely the darkness will overwhelm me,

and the light around me will be night,”

Even the darkness is not dark to You,

and the night is as bright as the day.

Darkness and light are alike to You."

I breathe deeply and purpose once again, only in His strength. To weave shalom. To weave ourselves.  To live sacrificially and intentionally. To speak truth and love well and live grace. To pray without ceasing. To do justly and love mercy and walk humbly with my God. 

We will continue to go to those places.