“Little ones to Him belong. They are weak, but He is
strong . . .” My hoarse lullaby faltered and then fell silent, stifled
by the choking in my throat and the deep aching in my heart. Hot tears
streamed down my cheeks and dropped softly onto the tiny bundle in my
arms. I gazed down into the painful darkness of my daughters eyes,
determined to cradle her as long as I possibly could. Slowly, her
vitality faded like a tiny wildflower picked before its time. And then
it was over. Our precious Aubrie Marie had fallen asleep in Jesus after
just four days of life. I gathered her close and sobbed out my sorrow.
But even in the depth of our grief we had hope.
What must it be like for my Ama people who routinely suffer the loss of
their children? They die amid squalor and filth without the comfort of a
modern hospital. They slip away in malarial fevers, dehydrated by
diarrhea, without the benefit of even simple treatments or medicines.
But even more tragically, they die without hope. For them, death and
what follows death is a horrifying unknown. There is no hope in the
tortured wails of those they leave behind.
What must it be like for Jesus as His little ones slip away untouched by
His love as hopeless grief grips their parents? The Bible says, “Jesus
wept,” and I am sure His tears still flow today. I think I can hear Him
crying out, “Please, please, won’t someone help My children? Won’t
someone give My people hope?”—John Lello
