It’s dark and cold, the light from the oil lamp on the table in the middle of the room does little to illuminate the corners of the dirt packed floor. The family of 7 huddles of on their single mattress, under the few blankets they own, their empty stomachs yell out in protest and their emaciated bodies shake and shudder, begging for the morning sun to warm them. Finally it comes, and the new day shines, but one does not stir. Hunger has claimed another little victim.
A small hole in the ground, next to their thatched hut and empty corn fields. A tiny corner of the world, a tiny group of mourners for a tiny body who’s name we will never know.
And the scene plays again, and again, while little hollow eyes watch from the sidelines, no understanding of the trauma that that is overtaking a small fragile heart.
When it feels like nothing will ever be good again, Our Good Father is there, ready to redeem.
When it feels like there is no reason to smile, the giver of joy is right there, ready to defeat sorrow and turn mourning into dancing.
When the tears are drowning and we are dry to the bone, the River is there, waiting to be taken in, in long deep, gasping gulps.
And so we keep going. We keep fighting, we keep falling on our knees and begging for strength, for a smile, for a laugh and for a bit of childhood to make it’s way back into a tiny broken heart.
We believe. And we wait, for the morning that He promised is coming.