I woke up with that verse in my heart “Mourning lasts for the night, but joy, joy comes in the morning.” And I truly felt it in my bones.
And then the boy died. Hit and killed by a speeding truck.
They say it happens. They say it is normal.
Saw his little crumpled body strewn on the pavement
and the blood congealed
thick and red,
redder, than I’ve ever seen,
redder than my blood or an African sunset.
They took the pulse even though they said his brains
were out, spilled out like a piece of split fruit.
Hit little shirt up around his back. His tiny 5 year old legs.
I kept looking to see if he would move with the intake of breathe,
up. down. up. down.
But only stillness.
In the heat of the Mozambican midday sun we stood there
eyes filled with unshed tears.
I wanted to cry. I wanted to cry for this one, a lost one. One
that wouldn’t matter to many. Just a village kid. Just one
more mouth to feed. Just one amongst the many who would
die of diarrhea or malaria, or the lack of bread.
But I looked at him and saw the life he did not live, saw the
soccer games he would not play and the sermons he would not preach.
We huddled beside him in the street, cars slowing to our left,
we touched him and we prayed. We prayed for faith to believe in
a miracle.
They say he died in an instant.
They say there was no pulse.
But we prayed anyway. Can the God who creates, not move His
hand to save?
They made us move behind the gate, but we prayed.
We prayed long after they peeled his limp body from the
black road and spilled blood.
I could hear the scream. I could hear the scream and I knew
it was one of a mother who has just lost a child. And I knew he
was just one. Just one.
But one that mattered to her.
