History in Platanares
I sat on the wooden bench, my two year old on my lap. The rough cement church was packed full, every seat taken, and many standing. The heat was heavy on us, but the biting flies had mercifully gone elsewhere. What I was watching was filling my eyes with tears, which I fought back. Three young men stood at the front of the church. Our friend Einer, a fellow missionary, was calling all the parents to come up, embrace their young adult children, and speak words of affirmation to them. That in itself is pretty unheard of among the Wounaan, but that touching sight wasn't what caused my tears. The three young men stood huddled together. No one had come up to claim them, embrace them. No one had come up because their adoptive father had been killed short months ago in the land conflict their community has been locked in. Einer put his hand on one of the boy's shoulder, and asked who would come up. Would anyone commit to give these boys a go...