THE FORGOTTEN PEOPLE
They lived just like their parents had and their parents before them, in the same house in the same village doing the same work. Forgotten people in a forgotten land. They rose each morning with the rooster and worked the land around them, each family member doing their part. They knew what was expected of them, and they knew what to expect from their day. Little changed in this part of the world.
No matter what they did, they could not get ahead. No one could in this godforsaken place. There was never enough of what they needed, and they needed so much. Always hungry and always tired, year after year, the same struggle and the same fears. When would the rains come? They always asked, and when the answer didn’t come, they began to pray. Would God hear them? Surely, he knew of their struggles and knew that without water they could not move forward. Everything would stop, and everyone would just wait. Day after day. Maybe they will come tomorrow, they always said, and then everything will be alright again.
When they weren’t praying for water, they were praying for all the dying to stop. Some died from no food, some died from sickness, and some just plain died from no hope. But someone in their small village was always dying, and it wasn’t right that they had this to deal with also.
Every once in a while, a stranger would come through with a box or a cart of something and a whole stack of promises and guarantees. He knew what they needed and what would help. A preacher and a teacher. He would bring news of surrounding areas and would sell them the latest remedy and talk the good talk. A flim-flam man to some, but the most exciting thing that had happened to them in a long time. Maybe he was their saviour, the one sent by God to help. When no one else comes and there is nowhere else to turn, they listen to the only voice they can hear.
It was a stranger who told them of a place where they could go to stop the sickness from spreading. A place that would help with one of their biggest fears. So they walked for miles on a dusty path following the directions they were given, taking with them only those that were strong enough to make the journey. They had such high hope this time and such faith that finally their prayers had been answered.
A long line of those from other villages awaited them when they arrived. They stood patiently like the others for hours in the hot sun, without food or water, just waiting for their turn. As they got closer to the front, they could finally peer inside the building and see who would be greeting them. White faces and white jackets. No color anywhere except the red bands put on their arms when they sat down, and no one telling them what was happening or what to expect. Nothing in writing either for they could not read. So they just followed what the others did and extended their left arm when approached. After all, the stranger said it was a good thing, and when it was all over, they made the journey back home again, relieved that the trip was behind them and full of faith that a new life was taking shape.
When the first child died two weeks later, they thought the family was just unlucky. He had a high fever and a strange rash in the beginning and then later could not keep any food down no matter what they fed him. He went so fast there was no time to even get help. Then two other children got sick, one the exact same age and the other three years older, followed by an old man and a mother of four. All complained of severe headaches, and all died except the oldest child. It wasn’t until a few more villagers became sick that they made the connection. It was only those that had made the journey that were sick and dying now.
Copyright © 2015 (Michelle Parsons, Getting Back on Your Path). All Rights Reserved.
