I am haunted by the image of the little boy lying in the surf. My daughter used to sleep in just that pose. But she was breathing, safe in her bed, in a home that was intact, in a city that was not bombed, in a country not convulsed in violence.
I am haunted by the image of the man picking up the body of that small child. I have carried my sleeping daughter with similar gentleness, but I was able to tuck her safely into bed and sleep my own sleep in peace.
I am haunted by the peaceful lapping of the water against the child’s body. The creation itself should be crying out at such sorrow.
I am haunted by the image of Jesus on the cross wearing a red shirt and blue shorts.
I am haunted by the thought that this is but one child, one in a seemingly endless stream of children perishing.
I am haunted that we have lost so much of our humanity.
I am haunted at the thought that God should be willing to not hold our sins against us in order to restore our lost humanity.
I am haunted that we seem so reluctant to take that journey.