Finally another African American woman. She's a nurse. We've been here 3 days and have barely said a word to each other, we've been so busy. She came as part of the medical team. She tends to the flesh. I tend to the soul. So our paths never crossed until:

The Apple
She scurried in a brisk hurry from the clinic
With the deliberate step
Of a woman in trouble seeking
Another woman in her likeness
Who understood our history.
We conspired desperately.
No time for social amenities, "hello, how are you" or even "whazzup"
She cut to the chase
“I gave out my last apple.”
“Apple? Where did you get an apple?" I whispered in awe.
“They were my apples for on the plane. But I've discovered in seeing all of these patients, what ails them most stems from drinking unclean water and a life time of malnutrition. I've been emptying my purse of my personal food that I brought from America. It's all gone. Help me!”
“I've given all of my personal food out too. I had cheese and nuts and twizzlers.”
“A can of Cashews. But they‘re gone.”
We stood close, breast to breast, brow to brow, our souls entangled, her heart begging mine.
“I have some cereal still for my children in Vacation Bible School.”
“Get it now! I have a starving dying child in my office and my purse is empty.”
Enough said. No questions asked, only the transference of urgency from her heart to mine. I sprinted, chased by my lack of faith. Will I have enough tomorrow for the children in Vacation Bible School? They too are starving.

The Voice spoke. “A child is dying now! I have empowered you to fix it now.”
I ran faster. I stuffed my back pack full of baggies of cereal. I ran back to my soul sister and dropped the pack at her feet. She turned, as if lifted by the wind, her feet barely touching the ground, swift as Paul Revere, she ran her precious cargo back to her make shift ward.

I walked slowly, following her path, toward the clinic. I looked more closely at the people, my people. I gazed into the deep set eyes of starvation. I was hypnotized by the African Haitian DNA that spoke volumes to my African American DNA. My people are dying…now. Pivoting, angrily, I stalked back to my room and grabbed another back pack and stood before the bin, knowing it was only half full of cereal, barely enough to feed the 600 mouths for the last 2 days of VBS. I removed the lid and…glory…it was full! Every time I reached in the bin to fill my back pack, the cereal shifted and the bin remained full. This was the first time my mustard seed missionary faith relied on God's bounty and he supplied fully, beyond my wildest imaginings. I felt the smile of The voice embracing me. This didn't just happen once…oh the miracles I could tell.

Der Druck dieses Buches wurde vom Autor nicht gestattet.
Setzen Sie sich bitte mit dem Autor Yolantha Harrison-Pace in Verbindung, um das Buch zu erwerben.

It is not allowed to print this book.
Please contact the author Yolantha Harrison-Pace to buy the book.