In this pursuit of justice, I am learning there is not one easy answer, and that the discovery will be God-defiined and the pursuit will be life-long. As a mama, I’ve been struggling a bit and I believe part of the struggle is also establishing me in my call as mama even more. When you are done here, will you take a visit to where I’ve written about that struggle on 5 Minutes for Faith? Click here.
At my place, I’m grateful to have Alia from Narrow Paths to High Places. And she is one of the most beautiful writers I know. I invited her because I’ve watched her be on a similar quest of pursuing justice.
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We Can’t Just Do Justice — We Need to be Just <— Click to Tweet
We all wanted off the flight. Crammed into the aisle and leaning low with my bag slung over my shoulder and pulling heavily, I couldn’t wait for everyone to file off the plane to stretch my legs out. The smell of vomit lingered in the area around me and clung to my pores.
When I had deposited myself wearily onto my aisle seat in Philadelphia, I smiled at the vacant middle one. Spreading my elbows out between me and the woman seated near the window, I watched as the plane filled.
At the lastminute a young woman carrying a toddler, diaperbag thumping against each seat as she side shimmied her way through the narrow plane locked eyes on the seat number above my head and glanced down at the empty spot as she moved forward. I silently hoped she wasn’t going to sit there but she stopped at my side and indicated that was her space. I allowed her by and she took her place pushing the oversized diaper bag under the chair in front of her, putting the sippy cup of golden apple juice in her son’s chubby palm and shifting around to get her seatbelt attached.
His wide eyes took me in, his toothy grin white against mocha skin crusted with mush from the graham cracker he was slowly liquefying in his fist and mouth. I smiled at him and he reached out to grab my face with his slobbery fingers.
The mom jiggled him, and patted him, and turned on cartoons, and fed him fruit snacks as he whined in protest to being held hostage on her lap. She grabbed his hands as he pounded on the seat in front of her, reached for the other woman’s kindle and phone and drink. Covered his mouth as best she could when he would turn my direction and let out a barking croupy cough, thick snot oozing down his little face. He was obviously not feeling well and as the plane climbed, he got more restless.
When I tried to get some writing done and organize my thoughts about the Justice Conference I had just attended, he swiped at my keyboard and fixated all his energy on my iPad. I put it away.
Midway through the flight, he gave a few barking coughs, gagged, and proceeded to throw up all over his mother and himself. She mopped up the mess as best she could with baby wipes and his polkadotted bear blanket but the stench stayed for the rest of the flight.
All I could think was how utterly helpless she must feel. Caked in exhaustion, I could still feel the tension from her frayed nerves humming in the air. Over 7 hours of actively managing a tired sick toddler in a cramped space with strangers watching the whole debacle had taken their toll.
I did my best to put her at ease. I am a mother. I have kids, I assured her. I understand. The other woman seated beside her did not seem to share my sentiments. After all, the young black single mother sat in sharp contrast to the elegantly dressed white woman edging closer to the window and rolling her eyes in plain disgust as the child popped fruit snacks into his gaping mouth.
And then the flight was over and even with all my empathy, I wanted off that plane.
A few seats ahead an older Vietnamese man motioned toward the overhead bin directly behind me. He tried moving back to get down his carry on. Behind him, the two business men in the aisle seats blocked his way. The plane was crammed and everyone wanted to go in the opposite direction but this man couldn’t deplane without getting his case. He was swimming upstream. He motioned again and said something in Vietnamese. The man in front of me actually stepped out further into the aisle to block his way. He looked to his colleague and sneered, “Can you believe this guy, where does he think he’s going to go?” Turning back to the Vietnamese man’s gesturing, he spoke loudly in a condescending manner, “You just have to wait!”
A girl to my right spoke up, “He’s just trying to get his case, let him by.” The business man turned around openmouthed at the offense. The large man behind me reached back and pulled the case down and we passed it over our heads to the man who was bowing and thanking us profusely. He turned and exited the plane. The whole thing took less than a minute.
When I got off the plane and found a bathroom to freshen up, I exited to find the businessmen sitting in an open bar in the terminal casually awaiting their connecting flight.
All that rush and hurry for what?
Because the truth of it is, we can talk about justice all we want. We can talk about sex trafficking, race, poverty, and oppression, immigration reform, and gender based violence, gun control, abortion, orphans, and the atrocities of the Congo. And we should. We need to. We need to do more than talk, acting justly with mercy. But we also need to realize that at the core of justice is understanding. This is the place we walk humbly with God. Only by humility will we see the gaps in our justice. The holes that need to be filled. When we walk humbly with God we slip our feet into the souls of others and take steps motivated by our vision of God’s love for them.
We can’t just do justice, we need to be just, and becoming just is only accomplished in tandem with God. We need an overhaul of how we see justice, which puts hearts in empty places and seeks to reconcile a broken world with God’s perfect picture of shalom. Grace ebbing at the broken edges and a tide of righteousness overtaking the dark shores.
Justice is not just the absence of wrong but an active presence of right. <—Click to Tweet
We need to be peacemakers and justice seekers and sometimes that’s as simple as passing over a carry on or wiping off vomit.
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Alia Joy is a cynical idealist, homeschool mama to three little ‘uns, wife to Josh, book wormy, coffee dependent, grace saved, writer of random musings and broken stories, collector of words, attempter of all things crafty, lover of mustard yellow, turquoise, Africa, and missions. She lives in Central Oregon and loves to visit big cities because there are no decent Indian,Moroccan, or Vietnamese restaurants close by. Maker-upper of words. Disliker of awkward introductions and writing in the third person.