Thin Air, High Hope

Moving to Bolivia was a dream come true. From the time I found faith (or it found me) at sixteen, I had a desire to live abroad and contribute to another community, to be immersed in another culture. Though I knew there were needs locally, my heart was still drawn. When a position opened in LaPaz that fit my skills, it felt unreal. Even in the hard moments of sickness and culture shock, every day there felt like a gift. 

While we were there, however, something began happening without my noticing: my heart was breaking. Every disparity, every preventable death, every haunted-eyed child, every hospital hallway lined with hurting people chipped away at me. Visiting the orphanages and seeing dozens of beautiful children abandoned for complicated reasons, then returning to my warm apartment to laugh with my own two children, deepened the cracks even further.

For years I had prayed, “Let my heart be broken by the things that break the heart of God.” I believe that prayer was answered, but it wasn’t complete. Now, I am beginning to realize I needed to add, “Let my heart also be filled with joy by the things that give Him joy”. 

I wouldn’t trade our time in Bolivia for anything, and if God opened the door to return, I would gladly walk through it. But I wasn’t prepared for the stark and painful realities. These realities also exist here; I had just been more insulated from them.

I came back to the States carrying a deep sadness. Some of it was from saying another unplanned goodbye to people we loved. But much of it was the sadness that had taken root in the cracks of my heart. Ironically, we moved from one of the most impoverished regions in South America to one of the wealthiest in Colorado. Soon after arriving, I stood on a hill, seeing only large, immaculate homes stretching for miles. I cried. I didn’t want to be here. It wasn’t that I felt judgment toward the owners of the homes; I just felt displaced, full of confusion, sadness, guilt, and indignation.

The sadness I carried from Bolivia never really left. If anything, it grew. My heart was already so heavy when I began to hear new stories, different in setting, but rooted in the same kind of injustice and pain. I think, in some ways, Bolivia had made me more sensitive; the ache I had felt for the people we’d left behind began to overlap with an ache for people right in front of me.

Shortly after we moved to Denver, 2020 hit. I think that year gave space for everyone to listen more deeply. I had always been troubled by stories of injustice, especially around race and gender, but 2020 felt like a tipping point. Close friends shared story after story, painful accounts of racism, neglect, and unfair treatment, often within Christian spaces. These stories broke my heart, and I believe they broke (break) God’s heart too.

The conversations were good and necessary. They challenged me, changed me, and bore fruit in my local church community. I never want to stop caring about the hurt and injustice in this world. Yet I noticed I was becoming hesitant to call anything good. Little by little, I found that new voices, whether in person, in print, or online, were met less with curiosity and more with a guarded mistrust that drifted toward cynicism. Recently, I found myself thinking of my old prayer and realized I had prayed for a heart to break but not for the ability to find joy.

I’m not talking about neglecting healthy discernment, nor about ignoring pain or injustice. But in praying for my heart to be one of compassion, I hadn’t also prayed for the ability to delight in the things that bring God joy. And yet, the joy of the Lord is where we find our strength (Nehemiah 8:10).

I read recently that Christians should be known by what they love, not what they hate. We should hate injustice, yes, but is that our defining mark? Didn’t Jesus say we would be known by our love? “He has shown you, O mortal, what is good… To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God” (Micah 6:8). Instead of being known for hating injustice, could we be known for loving justice? Anger can feel productive. Indignation can feel like action. But until we actively pursue what is right in the face of what is wrong, we have to ask: are we actually helping?

Grief, pain, and lament have their place. However, there is a season for everything. “Human anger does not produce the righteousness that God desires” (James 1:20), and so my heart cannot stop at anger. Left unchecked, anger can sap our strength, and frustration can slowly weaken us until it gives way to despair. As I considered what to pursue alongside my indignation and anger, I was reminded that there is a more productive way. James encourages us to seek a heavenly wisdom, characterized by purity, peace, gentleness, curiosity, mercy, good fruit, impartiality and sincerity (James 3:17). And Paul urges us to “fix [our] thoughts on what is true, noble, right, pure, lovely, admirable—anything excellent or praiseworthy” (Philippians 4:8). 

For me, living in this way means looking for the lovely in every person I meet, even those with whom I may disagree, treasuring truth when I hear it, being curious about that which I don’t understand, and focusing my energy on what could be made right, especially through my own hands. If I’m troubled by hunger, I can feed someone. If I’m angered by inequality, I can help create equal spaces. If I’m burdened by the wealth gap, I can live more simply to give more freely. Not that I have perfected any of these, but as I reflect, I do believe that this kind of focus brings me/us closer to the heart of God than indignation or anger alone. 

Ecclesiastes reminds me that there IS a time to tear down and a time to mend, there IS time to grieve and a time to dance, a time to cry AND a time to laugh. I want to live in that balance, making space for lament, for dismantling what is unhealthy, and for grieving what must be grieved, while never forgetting that rebuilding, laughter, and even dancing also have their rightful place.

God is a God of justice and a God of joy. We see joy as a constant companion and motivation throughout scripture. “For the joy set before Him” Jesus endured the cross (Hebrews 12:2). When God created the world, his close companion, Wisdom, exclaimed, “I was filled with delight day after day, rejoicing always in His presence, rejoicing in His whole world and delighting in mankind” (Proverbs 8:30–31). He expresses delight in His people, in His salvation, and in the promises to come. Jesus even prayed that His joy would be in us, and that our joy would be complete (John 15:11).

This is what I missed along the way. I focused on my neighbor, yes. But in focusing on my neighbor, I became more indignant over their situation than joyful for their healing. Jesus wept, He lamented, and He acknowledged injustice, but He didn’t stop there. He brought light and life into dark places. As Martin Luther King Jr. said, “Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that.” I am realizing that joy is a kind of light, it pushes back despair and strengthens us to keep going. I want to grieve what breaks God’s heart, but also to rejoice in what brings Him joy. And as Nehemiah reminds us, in that joy, there is strength (Nehemiah 8:10).