My thoughts and emotions are still hazy as I type this. I have barely uttered a word to anyone the past 3 hours, still unable to process the news about the Bastille Day attack where a man went behind the wheels of a truck and plowed through the sea of people watching a fireworks display, deliberately running over every person that he could for 2 kilometers.

Just last week I texted my best friend at 4 in the morning, crying and unable to sleep because for weeks there have been more and more news of terrorist attacks and murders as compared to the previous months.

Since I couldn’t do anything, because it wasn’t like there was need for relief goods, I just asked God to relieve their hearts and to relieve mine. I prayed.

At least that’s something, right?

For years, I have searched the net at least once a week for updates on killings and wars all around the world knowing full well that some events, no matter how serious, do not go viral. I list down the countries and incidents down on a sheet of paper then find out more about the victims and people involved in desire to see them beyond the statistics.

I have signed a petition calling the President of Malawi to pay attention to the fact that albinos all over the nation were being murdered and decapitated because their body parts were believed to have magical properties. I have donated to the UN Refugee Agency when the Syrian crisis got worse. I have prayed.

That’s got to be something, right?

Even so, I have always felt frustrated at myself that I couldn’t do more, that I couldn’t be halfway across the world being there in the frontlines, actually doing something active to help. So I just pray.

It’s the least I could do.

Some time ago, I had visions of wars, dreams of deaths, and I wrote them down on a journal. Then I prayed until the relief came. I prayed until I stopped crying. I prayed until I no longer had images of red in my head. I waited until God gave me the bigger picture, the image of redemption after the pain.

But today, the visions came in photos of reality. And too blinded by grief, I have no clear image of restoration. I don’t see flashes of rebuilding. I don’t see the bigger picture.

Is there still anything?

Yes, His promise.

“It isn’t over yet.”

My vision starts to clear.

I see Him who is bigger than the crisis. I see Him who wipes away every falling tear. I see Him who holds together that which is broken.

In the crippling dark, He is blinding light.

I was never the answer. He is.

So I pray. I’m not sure if I can move earth with my words but I can try and move heaven.

It’s the most I could do.

For love is greater than hate and faith is greater than fear.

That means something.

Photo grabbed from Independent UK article