My sick kindergartner and I were listening to a rather dull children’s book on tape yesterday, when I suddenly could not believe what I was hearing. The four boxcar children were visiting their ailing great aunt at her ranch. The lonely old lady decided to give her land to the kids because they loved it as much as she did, and then it turned out the land had uranium on it. The children gathered around a hole to hear a hand-held Geiger counter clicking merrily away, and they exclaimed at how loud it was! Mining operations were set up blithely, and guards were posted at their doors. During a merry birthday party for the sick aunt, it was discovered that her home’s unusual stone chimney, of which he was very proud, was made out of uranium ore inside and out. Everyone reacted cheerfully, and the book ended with a satisfied tone.
No wonder the old lady was sick. And she gave her poisonous house to the children. What a legacy.
Listening to that book felt healing to me in some strange way. Curious to know more, I discovered that the book was written in the 1950s. That explains it, I thought to myself. They didn’t know any better. I thought about the book’s characters all afternoon, feeling for the same compassion I might feel for a child who bumbled into a tiger and started playing with its fur.
We as a community have a lot in common with the old aunt in our book on tape. In farming, and in almost every part of our lives, we are living blithely with poison, and we’re passing that poison on to the next generations with very little understanding of what it will mean for them. Today, instead of feeling anger and fear, I am feeling compassion for our ignorance and weakness, and it feels good. It feels like a ray of more vibrant faith breaking through.
No comments:
Post a Comment