The Stolen Life of James Foley

I honestly say down here to write about buckets of ice and cold, smiling people, about the spending habits of those who live below the national standard yet still give their faithful tithes, or the people who pray before buying lottery tickets for every drawing… But I just… I just cant.  I just watched a man die.

Every time I blink I see his face, the light squint from the desert sun as he looks into the camera lens, I can almost feel his heart racing, mine is.  I hear his voice in my mind as he clearly delivers a distinctly scripted monologue and for a moment I am surprised at his lack of emaciation, having been missing since 2012.  The once silent shrouded man to his left, lightly swaying in the wind, then begins to speak in a gruff dry voice, knife drawn.  With every twist of the blade during this series of declarations I can see a tightness, a twinge as the clear and intended victim feels every thunderous second pass by.

And with this glint of sunlight on polished stainless steel, out went the lights in the eyes of James Foley, foreign war correspondent and journalist.

I make it a personal duty to watch these tragedies, every one, to remind me of the love and sadness, the utter incomprehension, and bubbling tar pit of anger I wade through every day when I think to the sheer chance that I am here, now.  There is nothing in this world that will ever justify this immense cruelty… As I lie awake tonight staring into the eyes of hate through a cowardly slit on a head cover, I will reaffirm my commitment to humanity with a solemn vow of earnest defiance of hatred.

Thank you, James, for being you, and may your family find some sense of peace.

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