She is like a foreigner to me. Lying there in the stillness of the morning.
Silence.
Although what I fear, I crave. I want to be silent. To sit here on my 1970’s burnt orange couch and click away on my keyboard, spelling out words that mean less than I would like them to mean.
Haiti.
I feel you.
Torn down by your faulty infrastructures. Maimed by your concrete wreckage. Smothered and murdered by the earth’s trembling.
Haiti.
I am sorry.
How can I know you if I am not with you? And how can I think of you while I am here - it makes me crazy.
To know your breath is being stolen and I cannot find the culprit.
God?
Nature?
Evil?
You, Haiti, have been crying for so long now, maybe the shaking of your country was you yourself finally telling the world they cannot ignore your tragedies any longer.
Maybe you had enough of no one helping your hopelessness, maybe God heard your cry and He demanded the world to finally help His children.
Probably this had nothing to do with nature or some have said punishment, maybe some starving Haitian child cried out and God said; this is enough. You will be heard. You will be helped. I thought by now someone would have come to save you, but no. This time I will demand them to hear your cries.
And the earth quaked with their pleas.
Maybe this time we will listen.
And possibly we might be more aware and convicted to those in need so that God doesn’t have to demand us to extend our wealthy hands.
