I'm spending the night, asleep on the futon, when I'm awakened in the middle of the night by my granddaughter's crying. Hoping to let her mama sleep, I hurry to comfort three-year old Marlece myself. There she is, standing in the hallway in her nightie, her amazing curls drooping over her forehead and into her eyes. Her face is full of fear as she cries out to be rescued. It's over in an instant the minute I put my arms around her tiny shoulders. I soothingly reassure her that she is safe and she snuggles into bed. All worries forgotten, she is back to sleep in an instant.
That's when my heart began to break. I had read that week of the humanitarian crisis in Iraq, the humanitarian crisis in the Sudan, the humanitarian crisis in Afghanistan and Lebanon and on and on... I couldn't release the image of Marlece, so fragile and small. I thought of the children who couldn't be comforted, who couldn't be consoled and I stayed awake crying for them that night. Wanting to somehow touch them. Wanting to save them. Wanting to mother them.
That night was a turning point for me, one of many nudging me along the way, as I have moved from my lifelong complacency into passionate action. I can no longer do nothing. It is impossible for me.