It was an interesting week on my roof. A few days ago, I kept a promise to my boys and we had a picnic lunch on the roof. It was probably 110 degrees up there, with the midday tropical sun beating down on us from above and heat radiating back up at us from the concrete below. But we spread out our picnic blanket anyway, pulled sandwiches out of our little picnic basket, and munched away. We noted birds flying above us, ants crawling around us, and the different leaves of the mahogany tree beside us. The boys laughed, ate, then scampered and hid under the solar panels. My roof was a place of joy.
Yesterday, the yelling near my house that I had thought were because of a soccer game turned out to be a marching protest that had arrived in my neighborhood. My MAF neighbor called, asking if I could hear it, too. To confirm this is what was happening, I climbed the ladder from the back balcony onto the roof, and listened to the chants, yells, whistles and drumbeats, watched maybe 50 people streaming to the front of the national Ministry of Education office to lodge their complaint. This is perhaps the 10th such protest in the past few weeks; they've been averaging two a week. I appreciate their pursuit of justice and many times these protests are peaceful. A couple of times, however, gunfire has broken out. A block from my house as the crow flies, knowing that shots are often fired into the air... this is disconcerting. Yesterday, my roof was a place of fear.
Literally as I typed that last sentence, a large "POP" noise came from downstairs. My fight or flight instincts kicked in - heart racing, eyes darting, ears straining. Then I remembered, the kids are playing with balloons.
Some days are joyful. Some days are fearful. All days: prayer appreciated.