It does not make sense.
There are things that people do that I do not understand.
By the way he moved, you couldn’t missed this man in a crowded Haiti market. He was swaying his head from side to side. You would think he was reggaeing. He was not but merely yielding to the soundscape around him. He was blind. His head perpetually bent down in shame. His smattering of clothes clung on to his skin and bones. Flies swarmed and settled around him. His legs were disproportionate to his body, bent at awkward angles. In his hand was a bowl. He was begging. In the sea of people, nobody noticed him.
He hobbled to the sound of a stream by the road. It was really more of a dark-colored bog of human feces. He sat down beside it and using a cardboard, started dredging the bottom of the filth. He was rummaging for anything to sell for food. Anything, for himself.
Jon Weece approached him, knelt down beside him, “My name is Jon, and I want to be your friend.” “Thank you,” he whispered. In their conversation that went on, the decrepit soul opened up to Jon, “My parents broke my legs when I was a baby so that I could beg and bring in money for our family.”
I do not and cannot understand why a child’s parents would break his legs. Even if it, in their morbid ignorance and want, served a purpose. This does not make sense to me.
Inspired by Jon Weece, Jesus Prom.