I hate crack. I hate what it does to lives. I hate the power it has to strip a soul of everything but the desperate, pathetic craving for more and more of its poison. I ache with the longing to annihilate every trace of it from every street and alley and favela. The smell of it makes me sick and the sight of a hand cupped around a match, head lowered to smoke it, makes my stomach drop right to my feet with despair.
Yesterday, Manoel wanted to go to the rehab. He said he would go, so we went to pick him up. He is sick, beyond thin, and weak. He has no money, no food, and he has sold everything but the shorts he was wearing.
Manoel is the brother of our sister in Christ, Inaçia. He was living on the street in Brasilia, and desperately needed help, so in December we bought him a bus ticket and brought him here. He lived with us through February, professed to be saved, and was doing great. He got a job at a hotel in the city, went to live in the city, and was working full time. But he says that crack has never stopped calling to him. He says that he is saved, but he is afraid that he won’t be able to resist this despicable drug. He sat in the office at the rehab and cried. I felt helpless and very tired and weak.
I know that the God I serve is greater than the enemy. But today I’m feeling the enormous burden of the fight. And I’m asking God why the victories are so few. I can’t stop thinking of Manoel crying at the rehab. I’m praying that he doesn’t leave. I’m praying that God takes over and gives Manoel His peace, His love and His victorious power over sin.
I don’t like feeling broken and helpless in this huge battle. But I am asking God to keep breaking my heart for His service. In this place of brokenness I am better aligned with His heart and better suited to His work. And in my helplessness He comes in and takes charge.
He gives power to the weak, And to those who have no might He increases strength. (Isaiah 40:29 NKJV)
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