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After all that,
every single time,
we find refuge in routine.

Prayers of thanksgiving.
Steeped tea with milk and sugar.
Carrots, squash and onions to chop for soup.

And music.
One song makes us cry.
Other songs make us dance.

Still we tell the story.
Sometimes.
Not all the time.

No passports.
Four countries.
Decades of waiting.

Children born in camps.
No calendar to tell us the day or the month.
We write 01-01 on the endless government forms.

Sons robbed, beaten and left for dead.
Daughters raped and living with AIDS.

And after all that,
still we find refuge in routine.

Prayers of thanksgiving.
Steeped tea with milk and sugar.
Carrots, squash and onions to chop for soup.
And this hope we bear for good news from far away.

Poem written by Pastor Nancy Kelly​