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Elie Weisel

Dear Elie Weisel,

This can’t be God’s vision of helping his people, can it? These once beautiful streets and lively houses lay empty along with the rest of the dark pit of sadness. Never have I experienced such a dramatic hurricane. How could the name of a vicious life-eliminating hurricane be named after a sweet and colorful, happy candy? This dramatic event had a name, it was Ike. Your story of death and desperation in the Holocaust never seemed so real until I finally experienced it myself. The Holocaust was a grave sight with dead bodies covering every visible piece of dirt. With my mind drifting back to the present parallel to a colorless candy shop, I see a man’s eyes gently close as he drifts off into the perfect world above. He was cold and dead.
The only source of happiness I have is in you. I remember you telling your father that God is everywhere. God is on the streets and with the people even though it may not seem like it. You, Elie, are a comforter, and the sort of person that I would never expect to ever have any doubts in God. You are a comforter to the people in poverty, life-less faces, and people that seem to never escape out from their never ending health problems.
I know that even you, headstrong about God, would question whether God was existent, passing this life-less street that you are all familiar with. Watching the people crawl out of every imaginable crevice like some sort of animal is heart wrenching. They straggle onwards in hope for a saint to come and save them, and the look of desperation fills their pale, white faces. Every person in this world stares in disbelief as they watch on T.V. what the swirling power of Satan can vanquish. Medics come and pass bottles of water as if that is the powerless people’s first need.
Hair knotted, face filled with anguish, and a little dirt here and there, an old man walks out of a fiery building with a sense of relief, but soon to join him will be all the other trials he will face. As he steps out of the “crematory” I hear him question, “Where is God?”
When I finally get a hold of a water bottle, I look first awestruck by the blow of needy people, and then by the actual blowing of the wind, the aftermath. I walked out of the storm of people to just be approached by an awkward man of small stature holding a cross. He asked me if I needed to be blessed, looking at him confused and shocked, I gently shook my head no and pointed the direction of the “crematory” escapee. As I walk down the street gazing at all the destruction in awe, I hear the little whistling from a train, and I think of you. I think of you sitting with dozens of people cramped and hungry. My heart aches because I wasn’t there to help you. My mind is firmly made, and I will not falter. I will be here for the victims of this tragedy, and I will make my presence known, I will bring peace.
This is a city lacking ability to be transformed because all the dead weight keeps it touching the ground. It is heavy like the bags under the victims’ eyes, and like the thunderous booms the wind brought. The city is a dreary face, with no freckles because of the loss of sun. This city is a small clown car stranded with a bulldozer headed its way. This is a city that needs to be given faith and hope. This city needs you. God, achieving greatness like always, brought countries together to help the survivors put their lives back together. God sent you to write this novel to help people like me, unsure of God’s presence. Although at first I thought God would never help these needy people, He did. He comforted them when everyone thought comforting is useless.
If I had to name one lesson apparent through my experiences and through your beautifully sculptured words is to never lose faith. I know that we are always being tested, but I never thought that God would test us this hard. You laid the foundation for me becoming a stronger person spiritually and mentally.
One year later I walk right pass the very spot I was standing looking at the integrated silence that the storm brought in. Standing with my head held high, and a cross in my hand, I gently walk over to the once fire-filled building and lay my cross as a sort of reverence to me and to the desolate city. You were apparent in me and this painful city, and you are transformation that must derive from my visit. You taught me how to believe in God. He, the ultimate decider, never fails to provide the best for us. Thank you for teaching me the true meaning of faithfulness.

Sincerely,
Alyssa





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