Weep for the children, part 1

Shortly after waking this morning, my daughter found me and giddily ushered me downstairs to show me her prize. She had slept downstairs last evening in a sleeping bag to keep company with a nursing foster cat we are hosting from our local humane society, and her three day-old orange kittens. With feet that barely touched the ground, whispering, she hurried me to her den and smiled a radiant smile - the cat had decided to move her brood, entrusting her three babies to a spot nestled at my girl's feet. And as we chatted, the feline kept adjusting the company, moving her progeny closer and closer to be with her human friend.

Somewhere in a Lebanon across the sea, I’m sure a daughter has hurried a parent to a more somber sight – a corner of a house that is mere rubble; a dead sibling; a missile hit in the street…

I rode to work today through wispy fog, as dew glittered deliciously on the lawns. Even flowerless roadside weeds were bedecked in these morning jewels, shimmering in the early morning sun under a cloudless sky.

And I wondered what my counterpart in a different Lebanon might see – bombed out buildings? A brutal cloudless sky of dust and heat; burning plastic and smoldering ashes, with no roads of escape?

Please understand I’m in no way sympathizing with the politics of Lebanon. There is inexcusable atrocity there; and the recent mutual escalation amongst antagonists has forced Israel into a no-win situation: fight to the end of Hezbollah, a virtual impossibility which will further inflame the Arab world and distance already fragile ally relationships; or submit to a cease fire which is likely to leave their citizens, and their very existence as a nation, at risk.

Disagree with me if you will, on the politics - trying to fit any semblance of a summary into a paragraph is impossible. My point is that I find little of encouragement from any side in this fray; and little likelihood of a satisfactory outcome for the millions embroiled in that region.

Most disconcerting is the pain and frustration which is festering into a deep hatred for their neighbors. I grieve for the children who will watch foreign friends flee, while they remain behind in a living hell; or those who’ll have the memory of a flight from home permanently seared into their memories; those who will lose parents and limbs in missile attacks, and live a life of bitter vengeance; people whose remaining earthly life will be wracked with physical and emotional pain. I pray for the fragile, tentative grass-roots efforts at peaceful coexistence and cultural exchange, which are likely to have a tougher time now.

I see this is getting long, yet I haven't even started with what I wanted to say. More tomorrow…

As you hug your child today, or reach up to turn up the air conditioner a notch while glancing out your window at the tranquil countryside, shed a tear and offer a prayer for these children.