Listen

There is a whispering running throughout the suburb. One that can be heard by the ones with houses and the ones with cardboard boxes. A gentle whisper rustling through the cracks in the storm-water drains that the some take for granted and for some that do not take these places of sleep lightly. A whisper that is captured by the rumble of an incoming storm, bringing a pleasurable smell of fresh rain and to someone else bringing a smell of fear of where one can stay dry, a smell of something that has long gone past it’s romantic sell by date. And throughout the suburb, the whisper affects us all, from the houses hidden behind barbed wire to the people lying within broken and rusted wires in the rubble around.

The whisper that embraces itself around the community cannot lie. It can only tell what it sees. Windows quickly closing at traffic lights, old card cups that rattle with the copper coins that have been collecting dust in the passing cars, kids wondering how much their hunger is worth over their addictiveness to glue. This is the truth we live in. Yes, people are scared to wind down their car windows in case a street kid may do something, but also kids are scared as to what people may say to them or may hit them with. This is a whispering town full of people that in some strange ways are the same. At home, people do not want gifts or the latest gadget. People want to be wanted, to be loved, to be given something that costs more than money allows. Time. Time to be listened to, time to be held, time to share their hearts with someone. Time to care and time to be cared for.

Time to be allowed to have an identity.

We are all the same. Maybe not in lifesyle. But in the wanting to be needed. In the desire to have an identity.

Take the time to sit for awhile and listen to the whisper.

The whisper calling us to action.