" I have wounds... I am wounded."

She lays crumpled in the fetal position
head drooped to ankles
gripping for balance on a little brick wall
whimpering anguish
She beckons us near

Summoning all strength
head lifts briefly
matted thick hair tosses back and forth
the weight becomes to much
exausted head flops back to ankles

Tiny in frame
covered in open sores and scars along arms
spatters of dried blood cake little ears
bending down I see her face
disfigured, difficulty breathing, eyes fighting to stay open

My nose is overwhelmed by the odour
My eyes struck by the depth of frailty I am beholding
My arms seek to steady her
My voice struggles to keep soft and soothing
My mind races with what my action steps should be
My heart feels heavy and devastated by her reality

Help soon reaches us
we drive to the emergency room
she mutters between squeezed eyes reacting to unbearable pain
"I have wounds, I am wounded"she whispers
sinking in and out counscienceness


My mind fills with "she is the least of these"
the moment is holy, Jesus is present
her body curls into itself as she fights to hold on
"...And I identify with the least of these"
I hear in the quiet among the chaos