I know I’m not big enough to move the mountain. I know that.
But my faith tells me that stones are do-able.
I can handle.
The thing is
I want to move the mountain that keeps those
Gorgeous, sandy Syrian children separate from my land, my family, my home — separate from me.
It needs to move.
I have a 4-year-old.
In December another one will turn 3.
And there’s a baby boy, too.
I know about the lies that Mama had to tell her boys to keep their brains foggy.
I know how she had to look at them and touch them to instill the most love and courage possible, in the shortest amount of time.
Because shit was going down…
They were going down.
They went down.
And I won’t let the tears stop. I can’t.
They are my stones.
Yes, we donated, and will continue to do so. That will help fix hunger for a select few.
Tears though, they are from the deepest Self I have, the Christ in me.
If I feel it, if I let those stones tumble down my cheeks, then I can pray for the wreckage.
The tears are His, and each one carries the name of a child whose lungs were filled up by the sea.
Each one is an identical sister tear to those cried out by the Mamas as they fought against waves and water just to hold onto a baby, or two, or three in the final moments.
Sweet Jesus, make it stop…