A zillion tiny white flakes fall from the sky, some form swirling clouds while others drive with apparent purpose to the ground. Each, I think to myself, stands for one of us, each a unique example of a precious life that will come and go on this earth.
Today I watched several videos of grieving victims in Aleppo—mothers, daughters, brothers, fathers, sons—survivors of attacks by Russian and Syrian barrel bombs and guns. As I rested under my down cover and watched the flakes fall, I pondered my fortune to have been born in a time and place that is—at least for now and for me—free from tyranny and war.
I see the images, and others filmed in Venezuela, South Sudan, the Philippines, and marvel at the world’s misery wondering if someday—perhaps soon, and because of the troubling incoming administration—it will be our own.
Today is one of those days when I keenly feel the weight of what it is to be a caregiver of an afflicted infant-toddler-tween these past twelve years—the monotony, the restriction, the sleep deprivation, the worry, the dread, the frustration. And then I page through hundreds of photos of Syrian civilians—their skin stretched tightly across hollow faces, their dirty hair and garb tousled with blood, boys holding dead baby brothers, parents grieving the loss of every one of their children, some of them burned or buried alive, motherless toddlers bloody and in shock over the shelling of their homes—and I know I have no reason to complain. I know without a shred of doubt that there can be no merciful god.
During the night the flakes turned to rain. A glossy crust now cakes a snowy plain and a mist has replaced the wind. Branches sheathed in ice melt revealing their winter hues—rust, deep emerald, cardinal red. On the other side of the world, Aleppo appears in shades of gray with black holes gaping where windows used to be, like so many mouths’ silent screams.
We have a child who wants for nothing but to be warm and fed and loved, which is partly why we don't participate in giving gifts this time of year. Instead, we give to those in need of food and shelter and clothes, those who find themselves, for no good reason and in glaring absence of a merciful god, homeless and starving amidst swirling clouds of smoke, bits of shrapnel and rubble from fires and bombs and guns.
Today I watched several videos of grieving victims in Aleppo—mothers, daughters, brothers, fathers, sons—survivors of attacks by Russian and Syrian barrel bombs and guns. As I rested under my down cover and watched the flakes fall, I pondered my fortune to have been born in a time and place that is—at least for now and for me—free from tyranny and war.
I see the images, and others filmed in Venezuela, South Sudan, the Philippines, and marvel at the world’s misery wondering if someday—perhaps soon, and because of the troubling incoming administration—it will be our own.
Today is one of those days when I keenly feel the weight of what it is to be a caregiver of an afflicted infant-toddler-tween these past twelve years—the monotony, the restriction, the sleep deprivation, the worry, the dread, the frustration. And then I page through hundreds of photos of Syrian civilians—their skin stretched tightly across hollow faces, their dirty hair and garb tousled with blood, boys holding dead baby brothers, parents grieving the loss of every one of their children, some of them burned or buried alive, motherless toddlers bloody and in shock over the shelling of their homes—and I know I have no reason to complain. I know without a shred of doubt that there can be no merciful god.
During the night the flakes turned to rain. A glossy crust now cakes a snowy plain and a mist has replaced the wind. Branches sheathed in ice melt revealing their winter hues—rust, deep emerald, cardinal red. On the other side of the world, Aleppo appears in shades of gray with black holes gaping where windows used to be, like so many mouths’ silent screams.
We have a child who wants for nothing but to be warm and fed and loved, which is partly why we don't participate in giving gifts this time of year. Instead, we give to those in need of food and shelter and clothes, those who find themselves, for no good reason and in glaring absence of a merciful god, homeless and starving amidst swirling clouds of smoke, bits of shrapnel and rubble from fires and bombs and guns.
 |
| @picture-alliance/abaca/M. Sultan/ |
Very wise. Lots of love from us all in Devon. I tell my boys too often how lucky we all are to be born when and what we are, and it is just a lottery ticket. A very Happy Christmas to you and yours.
ReplyDeleteYou have a heart as big as the world, Christy
ReplyDelete