I have been thinking a lot
about the refugees ...
Syrian ...
Afghani ...
Eritrean ...
Iraqui ...
Moms, Dads, babies, little boys washed up on the shore
Desperate. Frightened. Traumatized. Sometimes dead ...
I cannot even imagine what life would be like
if I had to leave my home, my country, my comfort
simply to save my life.
When I hear politicians say,
"Americans just want to win again."
I wonder ...
in what way
do we think we are not winning every single day?
In our homes.
In our freedom.
In our grocery stores.
In our cars.
In our coffee shops.
In our safe beds.
So much "winning" we have
become numb to it.
And somehow end up calling it "losing."
I don't get it.
I love this poem called Sojourn.
It reminds me that when we talk about our times in the "desert,"
it has a distinctly different meaning
from real life in real desert
in a real effort
to stay alive.
Sojourn
We are high up in the sky
flying over the Sahara,
eating ice cream the color
of the sand below.
We are encapsulated from it.
We have transcended it.
We do not have to plod through
its extremes with chafed skin
and parched mouths while staring
at the endlessness ahead of us.
We know a journey of ease,
exempt from the experience
this desert has exacted
since the dawn of time.
Our deserts are different now.
(Joel Kurtz)
Today, when you wake up
in your warm bed,
with warm water
and warm coffee,
would you pray for those who
haven't been "warm"
in years?
And would you please,
please,
understand that if ever a group of people have won,
it is
us.
