While I was a little girl swinging and swimming and summer-playing on this side of the world, an eight year old boy prayed for his daddy and his mommy and his baby brother, all fighting for their lives.
I was oblivious, while my husband lost the most important woman in his world — his mom.
Malaria stole from my husband.
Malaria stole from my husband’s dad and his brothers and his aunts and uncles and grandparents and friends.
Malaria stole from my kids,
and malaria stole from me.
The more I love them, the more I wish I knew her.
Malaria took a woman I desperately wanted to know — and I wanted her to know me!
I want to sit long and talk deep and understand more. I want to laugh and learn and plan and pray. I want to be her daughter — in law and in love.
I wanted, years ago, to see her son hug his mama in a little church on his big day. Even now, I want to see his smile spread and hear his easy laugh when Mom calls. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to call her Mom.
When I look at my husband, our kids, I wonder when I’m really seeing her. Her blood runs through their veins. Is that her smile, her laugh, her creativity in them?
I can only imagine how she would love my children, her grandbabies who she’s never been able to hold.
I miss the conversations we could have had and the friendship we would have known.
Because of malaria, I grieve the loss of a woman I never knew.
Malaria is a Mama killer, stealing love and life and stability from little babes while they sleep.
Malaria is a killer, and millions have suffered from its effects.