Gift of Revelation Read Online Free PDF

is not our job.”
    A black-and-white image of dark-skinned skeletons, arranged in order of age and height and propped up against a mud wall, to be fed by a group of relief workers, appeared on the screen. Some of the weaker ones slid down to the ground.
    â€œHave you ever seen a human being in such a malnourished condition?” Owen asked them. “Starving to death?”
    Annoyed, the black woman with the large gold cross muttered under her breath, folding her arms. One or two of her cronies rolled their eyes, because they thought Owen was laying it on too thick.
    â€œExtreme hunger sets in, and the body starts to die. It begins to eat itself in order to live,” Owen said slowly for effect. “When hunger totally takes over, all thoughts, all movements cease. And the person slumps to the ground and waits to hear his or her last breath.”
    Owen paused, looking around the room to see if his words were hitting home. His relief organization needed funds, and if he had to plead and grovel, then so be it.
    â€œThe suffering is so great for these refugees in the Congo,” he began again. “They think they have been targeted and singled out by an unconcerned God. A white God who has turned His back on them. You know how Americans hate anything that entails suffering and its aftermath. They like happy endings, like everything tied up neatly with a bow.”
    Looking around the room, I thought that these people were not the kind of audience that Owen should expect to be generous. These were the kind of folks who sought tax loopholes, offshore accounts, and financial sure shots.
    â€œStand up, Kwesi,” Owen said quietly.
    A Congolese boy, probably in his teens, stood, his suit dwarfing his slight frame. His gaze was toward the floor. He was embarrassed to be the center of attention.
    â€œTell them what happened to you,” Owen said.
    â€œThe rebels killed my mother and father and made me shoot my grandfather,” the boy mumbled, his dark purple face glistening. “I saw them rape my sister and my aunt, many of them. They made me fight with them.”
    â€œWere you a child soldier?” a white man quizzed him.
    â€œYes,” the boy said, his eyes lowered. “I ran away during battle, when they were not looking. They found me.”
    â€œDid you hate fighting for the devils who killed your family?” another man asked, adjusting his lapel. “How did that make you feel?”
    Wounded to the heart, the boy sat down, staring blankly ahead, wringing his bony hands.
    â€œWhat kind of questions are those?” Owen chided.
    â€œI’m very sorry,” the man said, apologizing.
    Owen lifted his hand and asked one of the girls to stand. “Kenia, what happened to you? Tell them your story.”
    The girl, with a horrible machete wound along her cheek, stood trembling, her eyes bright and focused on Owen. She was dressed casually in a white blouse and a golden cotton dress that reached down to her knobby knees. Everyone waited for her to find her words.
    When a murmur arose in the room, suddenly she sat back down, smoothed her dress, and stared straight ahead. Tears ran down her cheeks. I felt Addie shudder against me. She was scowling at the lack of compassion shown by some of those gathered there.
    â€œYes, Congolese people know what suffering is,” Owen noted after explaining that the girl had been sexually assaulted and left for dead. She could not bring herself to discuss the atrocities she had endured.
    He paused for a moment and then pleaded once again with the group. “America cannot turn its back on them when they need us the most. They need our help, not our pity. One can either act or shut one’s eyes and pretend this misery does not exist. I see another one of our visitors, who was invited at the request of our good friend Dr. Gomes. The doctor has been a hardworking, loyal supporter of this organization and its work. Do you care to