9 July 2011
Now that I know how to look, I can see how poor the people are. Here is a woman shoveling wet sand into an enormous wicker basket that she carries with a strap around her forehead. There is a man washing his face at an outdoor tap. A man in a crisp pink shirt and shorts stands reading the newspaper at a shop. Children in clean white uniforms stand in the mud, waiting for the school bus.
We have stopped for ten minutes on the eastern outskirts of Kathmandu. The landscape is hilly and the streets are broad. A young, barefoot woman in a dirty sari carries a toddler on her shoulders. There is a series of sheds built of brick with metal roofs held down by rocks. They might once have been shops, like the row selling chips, water, candy, soft drinks, and ice cream. People appear to be living in the sheds above, where the metal pull-down doors are up halfway to let in the light.
I’m thinking about Tim. I’m forgiving him, understanding and even admiring him for having the guts to follow his heart and his faith. Yet I’m also furious.
It’s like a cannonball through the heart. Will I heal? The pain is sharp, bitter, and unrelenting.