A little refugee boy’s body washed up on the shore. He and his mother and brother all drowned, attempting to make it from Turkey to Europe. Three years is all that he got on this earth.
My tiny baby nephew was born three weeks ago, a month early, with respiratory complications. He’s been in the NICU since, on a ventilator, then on bypass, fighting day after day. He’s stable right now. His parents have been able to hold him once each.
I hear the news and cry. I think of my family members, arms and hearts aching to hold their new little one, but instead they hold exhaustion and worry. I think of that refugee family’s loved ones, mourning for two little boys and their mother, in the midst of being displaced from their home, wandering.
What do we do with it? All of this brokenness?
I want to look away. Cuddle my own daughter closer, try to push the images of that little boy, so close to her size, who never had a chance.
But I won’t look away anymore. I won’t avoid seeing the pain so that I can see another episode on Netflix instead. I will see and I will know. I don’t know what, practically, I’ll do then, but I will know. And that seems like a good place to start.