Ramseys shows us his pain

A man named Ramseys recently took a group of us to his home that was destroyed in the quake. We walked into the enclosed area with the mountain of rubble that was his home and glanced around at bits of furniture, walls, doors and other things that piled up on the ground.

“I was not home in the afternoon of January 12th,” he told us. “It is not easy to talk about this. My dad was here, though, with my sister and her kid. This is where they found my dad,” he said, pointing. “It is not easy to talk about this, he repeated. He was eating dinner. They pulled my sister out here. Her son was tucked under her arm. They were both dead. It is not easy to talk about this.”

I envisioned what it must have been like, as the ground started to shake. She probably grabbed her son and didn’t know what to do but hold him close. It wasn’t long before the house collapsed around them. And as it did, she shielded her son with her own body.

“How do you do it?” one of the girls on the team asked Ramsey through tears. “How do you continue to follow God?”

I don’t remember all that he said, but one thing did stick with me. “This is life.”

This man gets brokenness and death as a huge part of life that most of us don’t.

I’ve been realizing more and more recently how broken humanity is. The reality I grew up with in America shows me that darkness in my society is covered and hidden deep within. It’s kept hidden in our injured hearts by clever wit, snippy sass, passive aggression and sarcasm that cuts at people’s insecurities. Somehow we feel better by putting others down. Here’s a phrase I like, “Hurt people hurt people.”

We’re all human, though, injured by the humanity of others. We may be trying to recover, but too afraid of being hurt again to trust another. Some may hurt us, but I know a good amount of people who thrive on bringing life and inner healing to others.

I challenge you to be vulnerable. Find a safe, trustworthy person and talk about the pain that’s hard to even mention. There is strength and healing on the other side of pain, a light at the end of the tunnel.