From My Window

My mom asked me yesterday to write what I see. Here's what I've come up with so far:

A woman in a burqa sitting with her child in the middle of a busy street, begging,

about to be hit by a car, palms up.

Kids, half-clothed, some even barefoot playing a game with sticks.

One throws the stick, the other one jumps. I don't get the game yet

but I'll keep watching. They play in the mud in 30 degrees. Tough skin.

Two girls walk behind a bearded man, a proud fellow with his chest out.

What do they see behind their veil? What do they think staring at his back?

Little boys with plastic sacks swarm us as we get out of the car. 

Their thin hands pull at my coat, pleading with me to buy one.

A man going to the bathroom in the street. Another one blowing mucus out of his nose.

Who cares. It's a man's world isn't it? 

The tiniest snowflakes I've ever seen falling on piles of mud. 

The high tomorrow is 28 and my fire-building skills are in want.

Translucent chai from a filthy cup tastes more like dirty water, 

but it keeps the hands warm.

Baby in my lap. She looks as fat as a little piglet, but she's just bundled up.

No socks on her feet though. I tuck them under my coat. Her nose is runny and raw.

We have quilts tacked up against the window to keep out the cold and dust.

You can't. No matter how hard you try, you can't keep the reality of it all

from coming in your window.

From the filthy streets of Mazar to a designer house in an American suburb,

we can't close our eyes to humanity. We can't fool ourselves. 

So, when you get into your warm bed tonight.

When you sit by that beautiful Christmas tree and watch the moon

sleep in your clear sky. Remember Mazar and its brokenness. 

Remember your own brokenness.

Don't forget your brothers and sisters, their children.

Don't forget how little we deserve.

How breakable we are. 

How cursed we could be.

Yet, how blessed we are. 

Even the poorest remember this. They still love despite the harshness of life.

I have proof right here in front of me.

This is perhaps the greatest paradox of all.

This is the greatest mystery.

Greater love has no man than this that He lay His life down for us all.