It was never, ever personal. I have read headlines after headlines online and in the paper about suicide bombers in countries far away from my little protected life, and I never gave them another thought. Just one more. Oh well… so, what’s for dinner?
Until yesterday. Two suicide bombers targeted public places in Kampala, Uganda while people were watching the soccer world cup, and 64 people died. I know I would not even have read past the headline if it wasn’t for my Daniel.
In Kempala, right now.
The same age as the American who was killed.
And he loves watching sporting events.

And the entire world stopped.

Daniel did not die; another young man did. I get to hug him when he finally comes home from his world travel; the other family gets to plan a funeral.

I kept my emotions in check until it was all over and I knew he was safe. But then rivers of tears started to flow–thankfulness for divine protection at all times, a sense of how fragile life is, relief from deep within my gut. The tears would not stop. And the anger grew. How does such a heinous act make sense? What purpose does it have? How could sin be this ugly?

For the first time ever, I grieve for victims of horrible crime. I somehow feel deeply connected to these 64 lost lives. It could have been my Daniel. And to the loved ones they leave behind. It could have been me. I pray that the almighty, kind, compassionate and wonderful God I serve would comfort them at the core of their hearts and give them the answers that they need. I pray the world wakes up to the evil of war, the horrible deaths and the devastated lives it costs us.

It has become very personal.