In the midst of my daily routine as I'm caring for my children, going to work, folding laundry, preparing meals, sweeping the kitchen floor, and planning for the upcoming holidays, I can't help but think about those who don't have any of this -- no knowledge of where their next meal will come from, no security, no small comforts, no semblance of a normal life.
We think of our precious and silly children, tucked in their beds, and we can't imagine them living a nightmare of terror and poverty, but we know that there are mothers and fathers and children who live that reality day in, day out.
With this bitter knowledge, we might admit that any contributions we could make, whether donations or prayers, feel empty and small and impotent.
But still, we pray. They're not eloquent prayers, maybe not even specific. Just, Lord, help and comfort and defend. And we might donate blankets or clothes, hoping that in some small way, the fabric will warm a heart, not just a body.
I'm grateful -- so grateful -- for the safety, comfort, and provision that my family and community experience. My heart is just heavy because I know that these young ones can't say the same thing.