Rue held out the box of macaroni and I muttered under my breath, “I don’t want macaroni.” She looked at me and said, “This is what it means…” She didn’t have to finish. 

Their faces…I can still see their faces.

Her father had to carry her to move her–she was dying of starvation and no longer had the strength.

I remember the faces of the refugee children who looked on longingly with hunger as I ate the plate of fish that their mother had served me, instead of them. 

Still I recall the awful feeling of eating peanut butter and jelly in front of a town filled with hungry Nepalese people and being unable to share.

And every day, I give away a portion of my lunch to Your children who hunger here in this place.

Yet I still cursed the macaroni. 

Father…oh Father. Please finish the work in me.

Your Unworthy Daughter


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