The Missionary

Reblogging because this story by far surpasses all the BS expended on the US election and the money wasted. If anyone should be made president of that country, it would be the missionary woman, a small part of whose story is told here. How do you measure the worth of a human being? How do you decide what sort of person you would make your leader, i.e., you would emulate to the best of your ability?

Witticisms of a Polymath

I’m not a poet. I’ve only recently started reading poetry, and I’ve only written one poem so far. It still needs work. I wrote about a very dear friend. A short version of her story follows. To preserve privacy, I’ve changed names. I attached photos I took while visiting her in Kenya, but the photos are of people who are not involved with the story.

The Missionary: Poem

Frail body homes hollow birdie bones, conquered and malnourished

Schools crumbled, monies squandered, children lost, objectives never flourished.

Now daughter gone and husband’s betrayal, you return an unsmiling shell,

Depressed and weary, wary and done, and doubting that you served God well.

We once were so alike, our curly hair and curvy hips, on a mission to save the world of sinking ships.

And then you left, built a school, saved a baby, smiled bravely as your parents pursed their lips.


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