"But many who are first will be last, and the last first." Matthew 19:30
"Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free."
From the poem "The New Colossus" by Emma Lazarus
Sometimes,
I feel like this quote,
In addition to being inscribed
On a plaque at the base of
The Statue of Liberty,
Is inscribed
On my forehead
In neon letters
That can be seen
By people that others would call
"Lost Souls."
I collect lost souls
The way some people collect
Coins or postage stamps.
I have been friends with people
From all walks of life.
People who in some way
Don't quite "belong"
Naturally gravitate to me.
The underdog
The lonely
The outcast
The mourning
The depressed
The shy
The misunderstood
The addict
The criminal
I am the keeper of their secrets,
Their private and public advocate,
Mother confessor, comforter and mediator
For a motley crew of misfits.
I can only account for this proclivity
By remembering that at some time
I have been the underdog.
I have suffered loneliness.
I have been an outcast.
I have deeply mourned.
I suffered from depression.
And am still sometimes shy.
I have been completely misunderstood,
And addicted,
And yes, I've been a criminal, too.
Some of these lost souls
Are more found
Than the headliners
That so many admire and imitate.
Some of these lost souls
Are lost no longer,
Because they have made their home
In the arms of the Holy One.
Their rest is at the
Foot of the Cross,
And He has given them
Life anew.
They are released from their sins.
Their personal salvation
Is unburdened from their shoulders.
They are in
Eternity's Grasp,
And not all the money
Or privilege
Or status
Or fame
Or acclaim
Could have done what He did for them...
For us,
Because my heart's allegiance lies with the scapegoats,
No matter what circles I move through.
The whole scenario
Begs the question:
Who's really lost here?
"Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free."
From the poem "The New Colossus" by Emma Lazarus
Sometimes,
I feel like this quote,
In addition to being inscribed
On a plaque at the base of
The Statue of Liberty,
Is inscribed
On my forehead
In neon letters
That can be seen
By people that others would call
"Lost Souls."
I collect lost souls
The way some people collect
Coins or postage stamps.
I have been friends with people
From all walks of life.
People who in some way
Don't quite "belong"
Naturally gravitate to me.
The underdog
The lonely
The outcast
The mourning
The depressed
The shy
The misunderstood
The addict
The criminal
I am the keeper of their secrets,
Their private and public advocate,
Mother confessor, comforter and mediator
For a motley crew of misfits.
I can only account for this proclivity
By remembering that at some time
I have been the underdog.
I have suffered loneliness.
I have been an outcast.
I have deeply mourned.
I suffered from depression.
And am still sometimes shy.
I have been completely misunderstood,
And addicted,
And yes, I've been a criminal, too.
Some of these lost souls
Are more found
Than the headliners
That so many admire and imitate.
Some of these lost souls
Are lost no longer,
Because they have made their home
In the arms of the Holy One.
Their rest is at the
Foot of the Cross,
And He has given them
Life anew.
They are released from their sins.
Their personal salvation
Is unburdened from their shoulders.
They are in
Eternity's Grasp,
And not all the money
Or privilege
Or status
Or fame
Or acclaim
Could have done what He did for them...
For us,
Because my heart's allegiance lies with the scapegoats,
No matter what circles I move through.
The whole scenario
Begs the question:
Who's really lost here?
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