Sometimes I think I am the last person in the world who should ever be a social worker. I’m rather unsympathetic to many plights that I know I should find empathy for – if my professors knew exactly how many times I roll my eyes behind my notebook when I hear them wax poetic about certain injustices that occurs here in the States, they would probably kick me out of the program. It’s not that I’m a complete jerk. It’s just, I’ve stared at beautiful, precious babies with almost-translucent skin literally dying in their crowded cribs. It’s really hard for me to feel sorry for people who got themselves into the situation they’re in because of their own choices when there are babies with no choices at all left to die around the world – through both abortion and abandonment.
And you know what that attitude is?
I do not at all pretend to be better than the populations I am or will be working with. In fact, I’m in the same demographics as most of them, financially and situationally. But why should I expect Almighty God, the Blessed Virgin, and all the Saints to plead my cause if I can’t find the same measure of love and compassion for the alcoholic who drowned his family’s finances away as I do the babies left at the mouth of a coal miner’s cave, like my precious sister Aeren? I’m not trying to strip culpability from situations where there is plenty to go around. And I’m not even going to attempt to argue that even the direst case of poverty in America is remotely the same as the dying rooms in Chinese orphanages. But at the end of the day they are people created in God’s image, whether they seek Him or not, and they are people that are hurting. It isn’t my place to play judge and pick and choose whom I shine Christ’s light too. It’s not mine to give in the first place.
God, let that be me.