Friday, January 19, 2007

Dearest God,

On Wednesday afternoon my daughter invited me for dinner and a visit to her home. I had canceled a counselling session with a woman who had worked all night and had training all day. "Give yourself a rest; you won't be able to focus." I counselled her. "Snuggle into bed and imagine God rocking you back and forth until you fall into sleep." She breathed a sigh of relief. So did I.

I drove to Danville, picked up my daughter's husband's grandmother and took her home. My daughter called to see how close I was. My granddaughter was so excited to see me that she was standing at the open door watching for me. "Can she hear my horn?" I asked my daughter as I began honking my horn three blocks away. "Can you hear Grandma's horn?" My daughter asked her. "No, I can't hear it." She replied. Within seconds I could hear her voice in the background. "I hear it! I hear it!" She started jumping up and down when she saw me. "Grandma! Grandma!" What a reception!

When I walked into the house, we hugged and hugged. Her little sister beamed. At 15 months I picked her up, kissing and hugging her at the same time. "Grandma, will you play with me as she showed me her doll?" Gabrielle asked.

Contrast that with the article I just read minutes ago about a child soldier in Africa. An excerpt from a book he has just written, he tells about his parents and brothers being killed, then running for a year until he walked into an army camp thinking he was finally safe. They thrust an AK-47 in his hands and at 13 he was made a soldier. He and two of his friends, one who was 13 and another 11 years old. He spares no details when he talks about his first fight, a conflict with rebels in a forest. His friends were on both sides of him. He could only think about his parents. He froze when the shooting began. Both friends were killed, their blood spurting like fountains. He heard one boy cry for his mother. He carefully lifted him from the tree stump where his body landed from an explosion. His back shattered, he watched the water in his brown eyes, turn to red as life ebbed away. He picked up his gun and shot off the entire magazine.

He recounts the ways he had to first learn to be a soldier, then how he had to unlearn a soldier's way. His adolescence was stolen from him when he walked into that army camp. A boy became a man in a matter of moments.

I thought of how my grandchildren are still children, living safely in their parents home. Playing with dolls, toys and games, they know nothing of war, poverty, murder. These horrendous deeds are not yet part of their lives or vocabulary. They are safe, for now.

My spirit is torn as I think of these two scenes, one a loving home, another a battlefield. Children used and misused by an ideology that believes the end justifies the means. And what is gained but more killing?

I cling to the belief that God is with us, even in battle. We are not alone, even though the landscape is filled with torment and horror. God fills us with what? Love, comfort, compassion, strength? Or just the ability to keep on, to breathe the next breath until some sense can be made of it all. And sometimes no sense is to be made except for those who misuse others for their own benefit.

I pray for all the world's children. I wish for each one an innocence that none can steal or harm. I hope for a love for all children, a love that honors and respects, a love that embraces with open arms, not raised fists. I wish for each a life of joy and meaning, purpose and fulfillment. Not until the lion and lamb lie down together to rest.

My heart breaks
as I reflect on so many
of the world's children.
Running in the streets,
hungry, homeless,
without someone to care.
Life is lived thinking
about scrounging
for the next piece
of mouldy,
tossed aside bread,
while a pile of bread
sits on a plate
at my daughter's home.
Remould your world,
dearest God,
redeem us
from failure.

Love, Andrea