I Have Everything.

This one has been hanging over my head.

It feels ridiculous to even mention January. That decade long start to the year cast so far in the rearview with it’s looming writing deadline punctuating the end. In this series I promised to document what I learned, if anything, so here, my friends is an overly flowery sentence to prolong the inevitable.

The inevitable being that I am finding it hard to write this season. Every tap on the laptop feels trite. Trite because of those beautiful babies in Gaza. I can understand if you stop reading here. Jesus Christ, I can understand.

When I think of them a buzz swarms my ears. When I think of those dates wrapped in cheese cloth barely sustaining them because they have no milk. When I imagine the days passing without being held. Today I saw four dead babies piled on top of one another. Alone on a floor, their soft bright clothes, the kind our children wear, covered in ash and blood.

I’m reminded of the day I had my daughter, seven years ago this week. Born in a warm, functioning hospital that was not in crisis. She was wrapped in a soft blanket and placed in my arms while gentle nurses showed me how to breastfeed her. They patiently answered each time I rang the bell frantically wondering how I’d ever get the hang of this. They carefully weighed her as she cried and showed us how to bathe her beautiful pink skin. And then we brought her home to our tiny but safe house where we kissed and doted on her endlessly. We were never apart from her. And aside from school and very odd date night, we’ve rarely left her side.

Which makes it impossible not to think about Hind. The six year old who died alone in a car in Gaza waiting on help, help that was on it’s way, but bombed before they could save her. How could the lives of two six year old girls be so different. How my soul would ache so loudly that they world would vibrate if someone took her from me. And yet, Hind’s mother must endure that pain today. As my child turns 7, hers never will.

I had originally wrote this as a very stupid list of do’s and don’ts. Things like, do remember to keep your word. Which of course is true, but it’s hard to understand morality right now. In the face of complete devastation, it’s hard to believe in the good guys. Are there any and where are they and how can they save us?

What is being good and where does it come from? Does true goodness exist?

If it were you, what would you do?

Where does good begin and end.

As Rafah, a city that was populated by just under 200,000 people, is now flooded with over a million and a half Palestinians fleeing for their life.

I sit as I wonder from my palace of pure privilege where in this moment I have everything.

Everything.