Alive and well

This is a story that I wrote a few months back titled “Alive and Well”

As we age, we tend to notice that our worldview broadens and gains much knowledge. But no matter how much searching we do, we can’t ever understand it all. 

She sat in her carseat, kicking her mother’s chair as they headed to the park. Her fingerprints decorated the window as her eyes glared at the Earth passing by. But then it all stopped. And then she saw something. Her first sight of first world poverty. A scruffy man sat against a light post, his clothes ragged and old. He had holes in his shoes, and unkept gray hair. He held a sign, though she could not yet read. She then asked,
“Mommy? Who is that man?”
Mother responded with, “Sweetie, he’s homeless.”
“What does that mean?”
“He has nowhere to live. He has no home.”
“Why not?”
“Because he doesn’t have enough money.”
“But, we have money, mommy.”
“You’re right. Yes, we do.”
And then the light turned green. 

A few years passed, and she was in her third year of school. One day at lunch, she was approached by a curly blonde haired, blue eyed girl by whose name she did not care to know.
“You’re weird and funny looking,” the stranger girl said.
No one had ever said something like this to her before. She proceeded to cry until she got home.
“Daddy!” she wailed.
He raced to the sound of her sobs.
“What’s wrong? What is it, pumpkin?” he said worriedly, wiping the tears from her face. She spilled about her day. When she was finished, her daddy looked at her and said,
“Don’t worry, my darling. She’s just a bully.”
“A bully? What’s that?” she asked.
“Someone who is not very nice.”
“Well, why aren’t they nice?”
His respond was, “Only they know.”

A winter or two passed, and it was Christmas once again. It was spent in the hospital, beside Poppa. He was covered in tubes and fluids and was weak as could be. She didn’t fully understand the term, but he was sick with something called cancer, and she was told he would be gone soon. She’d never known someone who died. When he’d drifted off to sleep, she asked,
“Mamma, why does poppa have cancer?”
Mamma defeatedly answered, “I don’t know. It just attacks when it feels like it.”
And a couple of hours later, he flew home for Christmas dinner. 

Every Sunday morning, the bucket weaved through the aisles of the church, collecting paper strips and shiny coins. They had a speaker from Africa that day-a missionary’s child. He talked about what growing up in a third world country was like. He had no shoes, no parents, and seven siblings. He was lucky to get one meal every day, and he was even luckier when a missionary couple had adopted him and his siblings as their children. He encouraged the church to donate money to the bettering of health and education in low-resource countries. He mentioned donating to the “Feed My Starving Children Foundation.”
“What is that?” the girl whispered.
“It’s so starving little children can have food,” said mother.
“Speaking of starving, when is lunch?”
“You aren’t starving. You are just hungry,” Mother said.
Just then, a picture flashed up on the large screen of a boy, around two or three years old. He was frowning, and looked very dirty. With his lack of clothes, you could see his bones, almost as if he had no fat or skin.
Oh, she thought. That’s starving. 

They were taking a trip one summer later. 13 hours of gas stations, license plate games, and passing trees. Lots of them. Building to building, they traveled, when they came upon one considerably different. It was large, fading brown. It was surrounded by many tall fences and spirals. It looked like a haunted mansion with a big backyard.
“What is that place?” the girl asked, sounding concerned.
“That,” her father chimed, “is a prison. That’s where bad people go when they steal things and hurt people and lie.”
She slightly gasped, surprised. “Why would they do those things if they knew they would end up there?!”
“They all have their reasons,” he answered. “Though unfortunately, some of them have no reason at all.”

She was barely a tween, lying in bed one night, falling asleep to screams and sobs like normal. She tried not to think about it, but when she got home from school the next day, she had no choice. Dinner came around, and the house had been silent all night long. There was no food, but she didn’t quite have the feeling that anything was wrong. She saw her mother walking through the shadows of the hallway, little brother at hand. Mother motioned for them to sit at the kitchen table. The house was dark except for the dimly lit kitchen.
It came out of nowhere. She never saw it coming. Or, maybe she was just hanging on to hope, blinding herself.
“Your father and I are getting a divorce,” mother said quietly, defeated.
She felt lost, unsure of what she had heard. It hit her like a hurricane. She was being swallowed up, drowning in a sea of her now-broken world, and her soon-to-be broken family.
She felt the need to act strong, until bedtime came around, and she was all by herself. She felt all alone, so much so that she made herself believe that in fact, she was. A few weeks passed. Dad left the house, and was no longer with them. They already had scheduled “mom days” and “dad days”, who would spend which holidays where. Home would never be the same. Never again. Often, she would ask God, “Why? Why do people get divorced? Why do families break in half? Why do these things have to happen? Why does everything have to fall apart? Why? Why? Why?”
And every night, she would repeat it until dreams took over her ability to speak any longer. 

It was a “dad’s day.” She was sitting in his living room, watching television. The news, because nothing good was on. There were so many stories of sickness and murder and trafficking. Brokenness and destruction and deception is all that was advertised. It was a Saturday morning, and the news reporter’s first words were, “Good morning.” But how could they say “Good morning” and follow it with as many reasons as possible to prove why it wasn’t.
She was feeling overwhelmed, and went upstairs to her lonesome room to be in quiet. She sat on her bed, silent for a while. Then she lost it.
“Why? Why are there hungry, homeless people? Why are there bullies and criminals? Why is there divorce and separation-broken families? Why is there cancer? Why?”
Then the silence was no more. There was a voice inside of her. A voice that answered her and said,
“Why? Well, who deprives the man of homes and food? Who possesses the criminal to do evil? Who rips the marriage to shreds? Who IS the sickness? My daughter, you ask me why, and I tell you why.
Because the devil is alive and well. And without me, he will defeat you.