Dear Jesus, I Don’t Understand Bombs and Refugees

{By Amy Breitmann}


I don’t know where to start or what to say about all the pain that is swirling.


I have only seen children who sleep as refugees and the pain in Paris on the thin screen of my television.  And although I have held the hand of a girl who smiled big on a pile of rocks in Haiti and have seen all kinds of loss and grief in my life, I have no measuring stick for the terrorist attacks and refugees and politics that are swirling.


I can’t understand it all and I won’t pretend that I do.  I can’t know the wandering and the not-knowing, the death right there splattered red. The only thing I knew to do with all my feelings was to write to Jesus:


Dear Jesus,


Jesus there are some things that just downright don’t make sense. If I’m honest, I have to fight back anger and deep sadness some days.  What I have seen up close and scrolling across the screens from oceans away makes me scared and doubtful.  And as if I don’t have a voice.  But you didn’t create me with a spirit of fear and timidity, but of power, and love.”  (2Tim 1:7) And so if I am going to speak, let it be to you first.


When I look inside my own heart, around the rooms between these four walls of my home, across the street, or onto my television screen to the refugees and the terrorist and the loss?


There is so very much to grieve.  So much injustice and so many questions swirling.



Refugee father whose family was targeted for being a Christian


With all our technology we see so much more now.  Maybe we see more of a glimpse of what you do, in some ways, Jesus.  Because the whole world seems smaller and more like we belong to each other and that we can’t turn away, even if we tried.  There is no way to block our eyes and most days there is also no way to hear your still small voice because opinions shout loud.  States are turning red on maps, lines are drawn, we reduce people to politics, everyone has a side and a saying, and the whole world spins on crazy out of control.


It used to be that we lived in a small circle of our own fear. But now we don’t have to wait for a morning paper to read the headlines of hate or try to process the triggers for anxiety and the  fuel that tries  to make our souls restless.  We have built walls and weapons, and platforms. Our own pride trips us from really seeing.


And I want to see how you see all this.


I don’t know how you want me to help. But I know that you are counting on me in some way. So, Jesus, this morning I got small and quiet and I turned to the only place I know to look to for the real story.  I read your words about the homeless, the outcasts, the marked, the exiled.  I read your refugee story, and how no one had room for you. I read about how love came anyway, small and unassuming and perfect.


I began to remember again about this upside-down faith that you call me to. In Hebrews you say that faith in you promises that we can “be sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.”


It sounds like crazy talk, you know?  Because we cannot see right now.


And still you ask us to be certain when we don’t see peace, security, safety, or solutions.


You ask us to be sure, to be confident, and to be courageous.  You ask us to love those that we hate and include those that don’t belong and to lay down our own lives.  You ask us to pick up a cross.  You ask us to give away the kind of radical grace that we can hardly even claim for ourselves. It quivers in our own hands, undeserving, but you beg us to give it away to others, multiplying.


You remind us that even death does not win a war.


cross cindee re snider


This morning, in the quiet I remembered that there was thief on the cross and a woman at the well and  that your promise was the same grace-filled one you give to me.


You climbed on a cross to bleed red for all of us and it was a radical, crazy, outrageous love.


Love won that day.  And it has every day since.


There is evil and that has been here all along.


But we belong to each other and the truth is that you became a refugee to set me free.


But down here fear can multiply until we are all spiritual refugees looking for a safe place, searching for peace.  But maybe bombs and boats of homeless people should blow up something in all of us.  Maybe it is meant to remind us that we belong to each other. And to remind us that we can direct our arrows at each other and at our enemies, but the simple truth is that you told us pretty plain to love them all. And whichever way we point the weapons, the enemy is the same. There is only one.  And evil does not crush hope or love. You told us so.


Is that what you want us to know, Jesus? Are these the words you want us to remember?


Because when I got small and quiet today in a world gone crazy your words made a radical kind of sense to me.   And when I go back out there into trying to be part of fixing all the pain in some small way with my one small life,  I’m going to try to keep choosing love over and over.


Because we are all in this together.


One of your beloved daughters,





{Photo credit: refugee-David Rupert, cross-Cindee Snider Re}




Amy 1Amy Breitmann’s name means “Beloved” and she’s on a quest to believe it. Her boots carry Midwest soil but now she kicks it up in the south where she weaves marriage, ministry and motherhood together. Though she’s been a Christian as far as she can remember, her boots are covered with mud from her wanderings. She’s Vice President of Marketing for Vi Bella Jewelry  and Co-Founder of The Lydia Project, a ministry which holds hands with other women facing cancer as a cancer survivor her self.  She also is a lost-sock finder, a keeper of secrets for the best cheesecake recipe, and gets grace in the ordinary. The words that tumble out on her blog Beloved in Blue Jeans are balm that the Spirit speaks to quiet her soul. She loves others to eavesdrop there and walk a bit of this cobbled path with her. She’s a Co-Visionary with Tammy, Facebook Team Editor, Big-Dreamer, and Writer. Find her on Facebook  or Twitter.



One Comment on “Dear Jesus, I Don’t Understand Bombs and Refugees

  1. Pingback: Dear Jesus, I Don’t Understand Bombs and Refugees | Beloved in Blue Jeans

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