One small drop . . .


Afghanistan rubble

Image via Wikipedia

I have been haunted all week by a story that I happened upon. A story that really didn’t get much mainstream media attention. Buried  somewhere between Tiger’s divorce and Glen Beck’s latest break with reality. But this story was something I just couldn’t shake. The rape of 200 plus women and children in the Congo. http://ipsnews.net/news.asp?idnews=52594 Just another  installment of “our fallen world” Earth version 2.o.

You read something like that, or the madness & mayhem of two wars and the needless death and destruction  left in its path, and one is left with the question: How can I just sit at my desk and write children’s books?  One answer could be: Well, I don’t live in the Congo. I don’t live in Iraq or Afghanistan. So why should I care, why should it get to me?

It has to get to you. It gets to me. But how do we go on with our daily lives when so many daily lives end in pain, and horror? Do we just look away when the story comes on the news? Click away before we see too much online? Pretend it’s just a movie? Or do we look ourselves in the eye, staring face to face with what our particular species is capable of? We are all human beings after all, we are all related . . .  Can we take a long hard look and try to take something from the experience. Let it affect us in some kind of way that isn’t depressing, channeling it back out into something positive. Something useful, something good?

It seems as though mankind is losing the war, dead souls walking the earth, and unfortunately I’m not talking about zombies. I’m talking about entire populations, lost, dead & they don’t even know it.

We have become a ten second attention span worshiping at the altar of fame and fortune. I mean if God sent you a tweet would see it? How many tweets would he have to send to break through the static of our self-importance?  Would you follow him if he followed you?

I will be back at my desk tomorrow morning like I am every morning. Chipping away, pulling back the broken skin of a teen whose voice needs to be heard.  It’s what I do, it’s all I know to do. One small drop against an ocean.

One small drop . . .

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