This morning I woke up and, with a few minutes of peace and quiet, I thought about what I had to accomplish today. And then I thought otherwise.
I thought about everything I won’t do today.
I won’t sift through rubble and debris to find my kitchen. Nor will I wonder if today’s radiation levels will be more than my family can safely endure.
I will not walk barefoot miles down a dirt road to a filthy river and scoop water for my children to drink.
Nor will I have to take three buses to get to my job, only to discover I’ve been laid off. I won’t have to tell my son that he can’t go back to college after spring break because there’s no money for tuition and he has to get a job to help support his family.
When my children get hungry for lunch, I won’t have to tell them there’s nothing to eat. And when dinner comes, I won’t have to trade my body in hopes of making enough money to buy them supper.
When I kiss them goodnight, I won’t tuck nets around their bodies to ward off malaria-carrying mosquitoes and wonder if they’ll wake up too weak to stand because we’ve gone another day without food.
I won’t worry about my boys when they go to visit friends, that they might get shot or tortured or kidnapped. When we go to church on Sunday, I won’t expect guerrillas to storm the building and kill us for worshiping our God.
People who know me might label me: white, upper-middle class, middle-aged, mother, wife, writer, homeowner, tax-payer, Christian, woman.
But to the rest of the world I am privileged, wealthy.
What will you not do today?