When I saw their faces as they entered the village I knew that all was not well. Maria carried her son wrapped in a blanket. Antonio laid his head against me and wept. Rarely do I meet a family in Latin America that has not had to carry the heavy cross of burying one of their infant children. To this day I do not understand how we can manage to ship tons of weapons into the jungles and mountains of Latin America, but somehow the obstacles to getting medicines, safe drinking water and textbooks to the poor seem insurmountable.
Death is part of daily life for the world' s poor.
As I held in my arms the little family of three, Antonio unveiled the tiny face of his first-born son and asked if I would bless the body before burial. Someone went for a bowl of water. That was all. No screams about God's injustice, no cursing the rich who live so well at the expense of the poor. Just gratitude for the fragile gift of life.