As 2015 draws to a close, it seems we have seen all matter of atrocities perpetrated against the most vulnerable and innocent throughout the world. No one has escaped the wrath and hatred of the murderers: even the tiniest ones have died by cruel hands who chose to suffocate, hit, slap, brutalize, mutilate and snuff the life out of another's body.
We can do so much with our hands. They are our instrument, precious limbs given to us by God so we can carve out a livelihood for our families. We use them to nurture, caress, wipe tears and stains, smoothe soft hair and wrinkles, pat a hunched shoulder so the person swooning under loads of pain understands we care for them.
So why do some people choose to use their hands to hurt, maim, kill? Too many of them have learned to be afraid of a hand open in hostility and rage, aimed at their petrified former selves, which helped create the person they are today, full of bitterness and hatred, intent on erasing all beauty from every aspect of life.
That is why women and children are the most vulnerable, because they have in their possessions hearts that beat and bleed, hearts that are capable to pulse in empathy for another, heartstrings that can weep as the strings of a violin when another is suffering, beats that pulse in harmony with the heartbeats of sorrow.
What to do when so many around us are intent on wiping out beauty, kindness and empathy?
Plant roses. Tend, coax, nurture, look for the patchof sunshine feebly glowing above the frozen ground.
Do not get tired or discouraged. Become a determined gardener, a gardener who plants roses on the soil of death.
Water your roseswith your tears, your sweat, your blood ifyou have to, and when the fitst tiny buds begin to appear, fragile, pale, hopeful, you and I may not be here to see the end result, but rest assured a future generation of souls will, and though they may never learn your name, your contribution to their existence will never be forgotten.