I’m sorry Suleiman.
I see you.
I’m sorry that I haven’t come to hold your hand. To cry with you, to tell you that He see’s you. He created you, He see’s your pain, He loves you.
I’m sorry I don’t scream and beat down the door for you. I don’t march in solidarity for you.
I don’t light a candle, I don’t even change my profile picture for you.
I’m sorry I am numb to your pain, I shake my fist at the world, but I do nothing.
I gave you a fleeting thought, I paused.
I’m sorry that I nearly scrolled right past those words on my screen.
Suleiman Dauda, 12, said he ran into the bushes with neighbours when extremists attacked his village, Askira Uba, near Yola last year.
“I saw them kill my father, they slaughtered him like a ram. And up until now I don’t know where my mother is,” he told The Associated Press at Daware refugee camp in Yola.
Where is our outrage? Where is our solidarity, our outcry?
How God’s heart must ache at my indifference.
I pray for you Suleiman, that you would know his love and grace, how deeply cherished you are.
Who will tell him? Who will hold his hand?
Will it be me?
Will it be you?
When will we join in a mighty army and pray for you, for your people.
When will we stop, with ourselves. Get on our knees, repent of our selfishness, and pray that God's mighty spirit will rage through Nigeria, that His peace will reign.
The bodies of those you love “lay strewn in the bush” as you weep over them
May we weep.
May we pray for Suleiman.