A Must Read

I don't have the Koonce family blog in my blogroll but I'll be adding it soon. Marty just wrote a series of posts about his recent trip to Togo that are encouraging, exciting, and - as he says - surprising. Scroll down to January 10 and read to the top and join me in praising God for people like Papa Koffi and Hammer and Ablavino and Bertain (formerly Houndzo).

Koonce Family Blog

Hearts Entwined

I don't often cry, but I did today.

Several times.

I cried for Ablavino whose oldest child, Ablavi, died yesterday after a long illness stole her twenties from her. For talkative, opinionated Ablavino whose voice has been silenced by a hard-hearted husband. For Ablavino who mourns alone as the rest of her family wails and cries out that Ablavino's faith in Jesus brought about this tragedy.

I cried for Brenda, who first saw Ablavi as a friend and later embraced her family as her own.

I cried for Murphy and Christine, for Marty and Louise, who search for ways to offer help and comfort, who live in a place where the questions are so difficult and the answers harder still.

I cried for Edemno and Delano and Suzanne and all the other mothers of Zebe who try so hard to keep their children safe but fail again and again.

I cried for Sandi and Jenna and myself as small pieces of our hearts wither with the loss of friends beyond our reach.

I cried for Ablavi and the choices she made, the choices made for her. I haven't been in her life in many years, but I have a hundred pictures of her in my mind... of her braiding Esi's hair, or pounding fufu, or fetching water from our faucet, or repeating a phrase to me for the fifteenth time until I truly understood.

I told her story to a girl today, a girl about the same age Ablavi was when we first met. This girl said, "The death of one is a story; the death of millions a statistic."

I thank God that Ablavi was not just a statistic. Her life touched mine. Her story is part of my story. Against all logic and reason, our stories are entwined.

The Unlovables

I've worked hard this year on a novel manuscript about some homeless people. I wanted to humanize them, to make people see them as ordinary people in unfortunate circumstances. But the truth is, there are some people-- not just the homeless-- who are completely unlovable.

Saddam Hussein was hanged last night for killing 148 people in Dujail. His trial for killing 100,000 more has been suspended.

Maybe it's because Hussein's cruelty, his arrest and trial have taken so long that I've been more deeply affected this morning by the story of another unlovable.

If you are squeamish, please don't read on.

A woman in Togo has been arrested and imprisoned for killing, cooking and eating her own baby. The horror of it sends jolts of repulsion through my limbs. It's a crime beyond my comprehension.

And yet it's the next part of the story that shocks me more.

Hammer, a man who has always reached out to the unlovable, is doing it once again. "She'll die if she stays in prison," he says. "I've arranged to take her to a mental hospital to get her help." Some one in the States has already promised the money it will take to get her installed with clothing, soaps and other necessities at the hospital.

Hammer and his family live on a higher level than I do. The unlovables, to them, are the ones who need love most. They give up their own bedrooms so the homeless will have a place to sleep. They take in children who have epilepsy, teens who have been kicked out of the house. When one of the Christians in their church was accused of murder, Dela not only provided meals at the prison, she also slept on the floor of the cell at night so the accused woman would not be frightened.

In a recent discussion, I was asked who was an inspiration to me. I said it was Dela. I'd like to add Hammer to that list. Their love for people calls me to a higher standard.