In the very sick baby room, Ziggy lies in the first crib.  Arms and legs beating like sticks; restless and whining he spends his day.  He stretches after each spoonful of cereal but swallows little.  Feeding takes time but his eyes do not wander from my face.  After some days, the crying fades. Ziggy moves into the room for stronger children.  He looks around peacefully.  Silly faces bring a smile.

Most of the children suffer from hunger.  As do their parents.

On the wall next to the tabernacle the sisters had written in letters of gold: I thirst.  Each  sunk slowly to her knees facing the tabernacle before taking a seat on the floor as they would back in India.  Mass begins.  I do not know their names.  Their focus on the liturgy draws me in.

Who thirsts?  Do you God thirst for me?

I have listened in every way.  Head full of fantasies.  Counting my grievances like rosary beads.  Gnawing over troubles.  Judging the righteous.  Assembling the day’s list. Applause for a rousing liturgy.  I cheer the word and walk away.

There are days I have been stilled by hunger.  God, come near.  I cannot knock.  Like a jagged crevice stretched out on the earth.  This mouth is silent and gaping wide.  Hunger does not forget. Speak to me; feed me.

Good soil.  Everything is present.  Birds scrounge for food.  Roots twist around rocks in the way.  Thorns sting.  Creeping Charlie spreads across the yard.  What is good here?   In the heat cracks open and cross the ground like dry veins.  The earth gapes at the sky. The drought continues with its quiet deadliness.  Life is smothered softly.  Every little moisture brings some green.

God, send us your thirst.  Let thirst flow through us like a river.