8/07 Today was my last day here in Goma, and it's like God just gave me the most beautiful evening to look at the sunset, and the lake is dead calm. It's like a mirror. Early this morning, I decided to spend my last day in Buhimba. When I arrived, Laurine, our coordinator, Sylvia, Teresa, were all down with malaria, coughing, sweating, but they were at the Care Point. We sat outside this morning under the tree to try and get more fresh air around us to try and prevent more of us to get sick. And as Bindhu desperately tried to get us to worship and sing, I could just sense such a fragileness, a heaviness, among everybody as they were sick, and the toll of the ongoing war. Then they asked me to share. How do I share? How do I encourage them? What do I even say to them? It's times like that where God's tears speak the loudest language. And I think, as we sat all together, realising that I'm leaving tomorrow, there's just the silence and, and the weeping. We said kind words to each other, we reminded each other that we love each other. Afterwards, I got up and I walked into our Care Point and I sat in a dark room where 25 kids were sitting on a dust floor eating porridge. Boys, like Bahati, which I couldn't imagine would ever have survived if we didn't initiate the zero to five programme only six months ago. There's a gratefulness in my heart as I watch these kids eating, and I realise how desperate their brains and their bodies need this nutrition to become strong and healthy. I looked outside and I see our Care Workers coughing and sweating. I just handed out the last bit of medication I carried for myself and I was thinking, "I'm leaving tomorrow morning, and we are so fragile." We are so fragile. But if I look at the children sitting in front of me, it's a miracle! It's beautiful! Isn't that how it is with all of our lives? It's beautiful. It's a miracle, and yet we are so fragile. We are always only one step away from a disaster.