hiding children

Like many of you, my heart just breaks for those children and adults killed in Connecticut. I love that people are coming together to pray for the families, offer hope to the families, and love the families. I pray that God would draw people to Himself and ultimately be glorified in this awful, tragic, heart-breaking event. The only thing that burdens my heart even more is knowing how many children die every day without being noticed. No one to mourn their death. No one to miss them. No one to weep for the injustice. I do not want to take away at all from the precious children and adults whose lives were cruelly taken from them on Friday, but I also want people’s hearts to break as much as they have for this, for all the children across the world who die from starvation, abuse, neglect, sex-trafficking, and war. I want my heart, our hearts, to break the way Jesus’ heart breaks. I have been wanting to start writing more because to write is to process, express, and dig deep into buried emotions I sometimes don’t even know exist. So, I thought to myself, why not write about how my heart is feeling for all the kids who die without love or hope? This little poem is definitely amateur and far from anything profound and could be edited a bunch; but, nevertheless, I wrote and I wrote from a very real place in my heart. 

 

The President quotes Scripture,

He reads about hope, the unseen things

there are so many that die without hope

does he have that hope?

my dad murmurs,

he can’t even stand to watch the President speak

my mom, somber, tells us again-

she woke up last night, heart breaking for those kids,

couldn’t sleep

the President still speaks

my dad still watches

my eyes lock on the screen

but my heart flies to another place

my heart runs frantically through the streets,

in the brothels,

into broken homes,

it hovers over the shaking girl

My 98.6 degrees is surely warmer

than the snowflakes attacking her thin jacket,

vying for a spot on her eyelashes

a place of rest,

a place of stillness

Why won’t they share?

My heart races into the brothel

A minute.

64 times my heart pumps

pumping blood, pumping blood, pumping blood

with each beat it wills the fifteen year old

to know, to see, to understand

what the enemy has turned her into,

is not her real identity

she is free

washed by His blood, washed by His blood, washed by His blod

My heart breaks through the door

On thirteenth and Alexander

House number 111

It struggles to pry the one’s off the house

Because one sounds like won

The kids, huddled in the corner,

A black eye, a sliced heart in need of stitches and love,

Need to know

Jesus has won, Jesus has won, Jesus has won

In the morning, somber, I’ll tell my parents

I woke up last night, heart breaking,

Couldn’t sleep for these kids

I plea

President, tell the world about them

News channels, bring their stories to the light,

People around the world, pray without ceasing for them too

My heart yearns to find all these children,

hiding,

Huddled in classrooms,

In street corners,

In brothels,

In closets

The president still talks about hope

My dad still watches

My eyes lock on the screen

But my heart flies to another place

A place of truth

Jesus is the hope

We still watch in hope

Jesus locks his eyes on mine

And reminds me,

His heart has already flown to all those places,

The places of the hiding children

His heart has already broken

Still breaks

His heart has already found,

Still finds

His heart has already loved

Still keeps loving

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