Inspiration Inside the Kindness Bus

December 2nd, 2010

When the temperature in The Kindness Bus drops into the 30s overnight it takes lots of blankets and a whole bunch of inspiration. Only as far south as northern South Carolina, I now realize that next year, by early November, I need to be well into the Florida peninsula.
Nights of a bit of discomfort I may start experiencing are soon overcome by the image I have had hanging on the ceiling of The Kindness Bus and which had hung on the walls of my previous two homes.
His eyes are what were so powerful. A boy of about eight years of age I would guess, but those eyes, those eyes are not his. Those eyes are those of an eighty year old. An eight year old boy with the eyes of an eighty year old, how could this be?  This young man from Darfur sitting awkwardly near an old plastic container, with water no doubt, his lifeline, staring at me with his very tired, aged eyes. He in his home of bent limbs and branches with tattered worn fabric stretched loosely over the makeshift, arch-shaped wood. The boy is in his hut trying to stay out of the elements sitting on the dirt floor. My mind starts to pose questions. Does he wonder when his water will be replenished?  How far did he walk with those bare feet across the hot, barren land to the safety of a neighboring country? How hot is it? Mosquitoes? Flies? Food? Is anyone there to comfort him?
But, those eyes, what did those eyes see? An eight year old boy witnessing and living a life no one should have to live. Witnessing what the militia did to his mother, his sisters, his brothers and father. A boy staring back at me from halfway around the world. Helpless to help him. A feeling of complete hopelessness shows on his face. His eyes, the prominent feature. The boy, if he speaks at all, speaks a language that is completely foreign to me. His eyes speak to me though, in a language I understand. His eyes speak every language. You just have to choose to listen.

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