This morning I rode the bus to church next to a girl who was sold into slavery at the age of eight. For fifty cents. By her own parents. What do you do with that?
I've been convinced for a while now that we are each given our own unique hell to survive in life. Mine looks much different from yours. Mine also looks much different than the ones of these children. These children have truly seen hell, and they have survived. Many of them are not more than half my age, and they have seem more pain than I have ever even heard about. Yet, these children hold the secrets to life. They hold the secrets to love. They have endured so much, and they love anyways. Without regard, and without condition.
Tonight I walked to church with a boy that is twelve years old. He met me this morning, and yet he wanted to hold my hand the entire time we walked. He doesn't speak my language, and I don't understand his. Yet he loved me, and he wanted to guide me on my way. Without words we took the 30 minute walk, and he spoke more to me than if he would have talked in words I understood. I am lucky to be here, and I have much to learn.
May I not miss out, and may I remember to stop and listen.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment