Calls of hadida birds and chickens travel through the open windows of our cottage in Mbabane, Swaziland. Their less than harmonic orchestra awakens me early in the morning. Even though both are birds, their sounds are distinct. The hadida could never be confused with the hen, or vice versa. A bird’s call is one of their defining signs. No two species sound the same.
As morning approaches noon, other sounds move through the air. Feet pound a playful rhythm upon the dirt; chasing, being chased. Laughter tickles my ears. Cries touch my heart. Though I can’t see them, I imagine their size from the youthful pitch. Though I can’t touch them, I sense the softness of their skin; not yet weathered from too many storms, though many storms they have lived. I sense the gentleness of their hand grabbing a hold of another. Maybe the only one to hold that day. And I envision a smile looking up as they accept their tug for love.
This unseen scene, but not unheard, takes place across the dirt road from the cottage where I live in Africa. But it could be in the United States, or anywhere around the globe. You see, children sound the same when they laugh. When they cry. Whether in Swaziland or in America, joy or sorrow, both come from the same place inside. Straight from the heart. The place we are to protect, to guard, to keep the sorrow from overtaking the joy. The place we should treasure in each other. Nurture in a child. That place inside that matters most of all.
Children cry. Children laugh. Just the same. God made us different from each other, yet with the same need inside. {Tweet This} From the heart is where all of this springs. You see, children sound the same when their well is relieved, unlike the hadida or the hen, who sound different when they sing.
