at 25, I still carry my childhood with me everywhere, like a lucky penny I rub whenever life gets hard. the deep recesses of my mind overflow with memories of playing make-believe in the woods, tossing sticks into the pond, and playing catch as the sun went down.
I think that’s why, perhaps, I grieve so deeply over the suffering of the children caught in the throws of war. childhoods, robbed. childhoods, defined by decimated homes and cold, sleepless nights.
when I was in greece this last summer, a syrian mother told me that her breaking point back home in syria was when her two-year-old son wouldn’t stop crying. he would run around the house in hysterics as planes dropped bombs overhead. his first memories of life—quite literally—will be war and violence, fear and suffering.
in political seasons when everything is leverage and promises ring empty, it’s easy to forget that every choice we make leaves a mark, a legacy. may we mourn for the lost childhoods, but let’s not lose hope for redemption. because deep down, there is joy to be found.
- Jun 18, 2018 for tom.
- Jan 26, 2017 week one impressions
- Nov 29, 2016 on being a christian in trump's america
- Nov 22, 2016 on senseless hospitality
- Oct 13, 2016 on the lost childhoods
- Oct 13, 2016 a case for the desert
- Aug 31, 2016 from the inside #1
- Dec 28, 2015 parry's cabin & an ode to home
- Jan 2, 2015 on balance
- Nov 18, 2014 the essence of fear