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  • Writer's pictureC E

the children's bread


Dreams don’t die in fields of blue when held within the hands of a Maker increasing.

What shall be left of the children fleeing genocide in a world too dull to reach out in faith?

When do hidden woman find joy in standing in the places of men far less suitable?

This time, we cry out for Afghan maidens driven from the very homes they labored to birth from the love planted and nurtured within the soil formed from dessert seasons and unfortunate circumstances.

Ashes of hate spread upon graves unspoken and unsheltered.

He hears every cry.

Our only hope. — that gentle whispers in the dark find refuge in His inclined ears and ever-present grace.

"Father forgive them”…or don’t.

For You extend to whomever You please a mercy only pierced hands could give.

But when Your eyes begin to roam around, remember us.

Remember the remnant who sought You before life again turned against those of whom You destined as Your own. Remember the women who held themselves strong—teaching Your little ones of the grace found in the Shepherd leading them towards eternity.

Remember the hidden, only in hiding so Your gospel could remain in the light.

And remember the desperate… in each nation, each territory..each home.

Remember us when You’re searching for deliverers to set captives free in faithful remembrance of the One who goes before us and beckons us out…to call us home.

Close your eyes and meditate for a moment on your own senses.

On the ears you use to escape the world’s noise.

On the sweet satisfaction received as you awaken your tongue to fresh berries or that dessert you can’t seem to get enough of.

Think of the sight of a mid-day’s sun shining bright before you, paying no respects to your desire to see what lies ahead.

Of the cold handle you reach for in hopes of stabilizing your balance.

Do you remember such things?

Momentary experiences that meet you with sudden freedoms and abilities?


Let gratitude wash over the weariness of difficult days and lowly moments of disappointment and despair.

Now, do you hear their cries?

The women persecuted for belonging in their place?

The children mourning the lives of friends and loved ones lost within the darkness dehumanization brings?

Do you hear the fathers reaching for their daughters driven into foreign lands alone and afraid?

Who knew to prepare for the days when certificates of truth and celebration would lend women into arms of disgrace and shame?

Who could ever imagine that a child would find hope in remembering the loss of a parent in ages of old..

..before death met the faithful with disaster and justice was stripped of its honor and truth.

Who remembers to reach for the ones labeled as terrorists even before being crowned with names to be called?

And here we are…again..”praying” for solutions to disasters our passivity helped create.

As though our sudden acknowledgment makes the Father proud.

Is this the life we’ll continue to live?

The life we’ll leave to those coming up behind us?

Pieces and ideas of how to make the infeasible whole?

To Afghan—please, forgive us...

...for closing our borders and shutting down are hearts....

...for withholding our love and rushing past your cries as though the tears you cried were meant to water our greed and nourish our pride.

These hearts were placed in us by One who loves you with a love undying and much more effective than our own.

We, ourselves, are far from greater than you.

We repent.

And we will not forget nor relent..until freedom is as attainable to you as it’s been for us.

With love,

— A nation un-forsaken by our own imbalanced desperation and selfish desires.

May the america you’ve known in seasons past yield towards the new: a land in mending though still broken.

May the Rescuer we share, rescue you too.

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