The Struggle of Return

As I drove down US-10 today, amidst the busyness of America, I can't help but realize how smooth my travel is. No potholes, no stopping for craters in the road, no one driving on top of the dotted lines at stop lights and intersections. Yet I am still saddened at the feeling of a hole somewhere in my heart. People who go about their business in the store, few stopping to even smile at you, and realize you. If only they could know life in other parts of this world, and just how blessed they are, even though some still struggle to make ends meet in a country with backward values and priorities that need reevaluating. I can barely look up and view my life, as I am slightly sickened at how I carry on with them. Obtaining food for a week, and feeling provided for even though the money is tight.
We ignore the pain because we don't have to look at it on a daily basis. We ignore the hungry because we are not them, and we don't know any of them. We can turn off the commercials asking for help for a starving community because it is just too hard for us to add to our lives.
This is the trouble of the hard return to the States after spending a week among people who are struggling harder than us, yet can still can't help but put a smile on their faces, dance in the streets, and be grateful for what they have - not discontent for what they don't have, even if it is a roof over their heads. I'm always disgusted with myself when I come back. How can I live in such a privileged place and carry on after seeing such brutality for a week? Why am I not as happy as the people with next to nothing, when I have everything I need to live each day?
How do we keep that fire burning? To return to our lives and carry on, excited and showing off our experiences to everyone around us, and already planning for a year from now to return. Then a month goes by, and though a spark still is flickering, maybe even a small flame still sets ablaze, we feel the excitement and need wear off. 6 months later we've practically forgotten about the passion we've gained, and so have our congregations, as we return to our newsletters, our music, our comfy chairs, our programs, our satisfaction with the people around us.
We too easily forget about the tiny faces in the photographs. We too easily forget about the kind mother who opened her home to us, who struggles daily to feed her children. We too easily forget how privileged we are. While many churches gather in tents, in the open air, or just in the streets, we long for more, keeping up with the ways of our society. We need the new, hit song in the praise team, the curriculum that are fun, the perfect agenda of programs for the month. Yet simply having a Bible in the third world screams luxury. To sit for hours, just soaking in God's Word is the curriculum that excites the most.
I'm obviously torn by our culture. I'm hurt by the ways we've become accustomed to. The challenge we have with the freedom we have is both complex and so prominent as well. We need to keep that fire burning. Keep that broken heart for the lost, the hungry and the hurting. Live like Jesus lived and love like He loved.
This is the struggle of the return.