I’ve come to expect brutality and destruction in the world since the day Dad came to take me home from first grade, sobbing and inconsolable from another duck and cover drill. We’ve all practiced at WWIII since we were children. Inured to the up to the minute coverage and tears. War won’t break me.
What guts me is the beauty and beneficence of the human race as people tenderly care for each other. The breaking opens my wounds to healing and the essence of peace descends.
I’ll remember until I die the children of the world killed in a perpetrator’s march of narcissism and arrogance. Mourn with all who sacrificed their children to genocide. It’s easy to hate when I think of the children maimed who have to live with their memories. Enmity is the easy way.
It’s so much harder to allow the fracturing of our hearts to be used for a true and faithful purpose in the world, to join in compassion. To find hope for healing in the now constant diaspora of children to and fro across the planet. Children come to heal us with their sacrifice, now forever strangers in a strange land.
Is it possible the migration of the world’s children will save us from ourselves?