Barely eight weeks after one of the worst natural disasters in history, news of the devastation of the Indian Ocean tsunami has been relegated to the inside pages – or the closing sound bite on the nightly news. It’s not the lead story any longer. We’ve apparently reached the saturation point on how much horrific detail can be absorbed.
But one story has lingered.
“Baby 81,” a four-month old Sri Lankan infant swept from his mother’s arms, has finally been identified. He was pulled alive from a heap of mud, debris and corpses, and became the 81st patient admitted to a small hospital in the coastal town of Kalmunai. Nine couples quickly claimed the child was theirs – and for eight weeks, officials sought to determine who “Baby 81’s” parents really were.
I confess as a city girl I don’t know much about plowing. I’ve certainly never walked behind a plow – although I did ride the tractor once with my granddad as he dug rows for cotton seed to nestle and grow.
What I remember about that tractor ride was the rich smell of turned-up earth…and how good it felt to sit safely tucked under my grandpa’s chin as we rumbled over the field. Plowing didn’t seem so drastic a measure when it was only the ground that was broken.
It’s a whole lot different when you’re the soil that’s being readied.
The earth doesn’t seem to mind it’s bruising – but I mind mine. “No’s” hurt when you’ve prayed for “yes’s” – and slamming doors can jar the joy right out of your day. Little indignities you’re used to overlooking can super-size before your eyes when what you needed instead was a double dose of kindness. Disappointment is as sharp as the point of any plow – and so are longing and waiting and the quiet wounds that they make.