Life. Happiness. Gone. In one gust of wind, one fierce blow of a dust cloud, it’s all gone. Death. Fear. They come flooding into the hearts of every child, every family as if it’s their home. Dust. Brushing the faces of every person, faces without hope. I feel for my children, wishing for nothing but to find their father and to reach safety. But that is what we all want and what we all know is just beyond reach.

But not the children. My boys hope for their father, hope for a life. “But Mommy,” my baby baby boy innocently declares, “we have a life. I’m here now, with you and big brother.” I want to tell him, to let him know that this is not life, not really, at least not the life we deserve. To tell him that we need a life without suffering, always peering out the window, awaiting the next storm to envelop us in darkness. But he’s just a child, so deserving of his ignorance and adolescence, and so I whisper, “You’re right, baby. But don’t you want a life with your daddy in it?” He can’t respond. They don’t know him, won’t ever know him. I peer at their tiny optimistic faces. Their eyes scream, “Or will we?” I can’t see the future, only God can pave our way. So I draw in the hope their faces generate in me and glance at the horizon as I wait for our dream of a new day to come.