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Remembering the Forgotten Ones
By Kinsey Thurlow on August 28th, 2012

It is a cry that sounds from every orphaned heart. Remember me. Some whisper their cry. Others shout.

I first recognized this common cry in a little girl named Valeria, an orphaned girl who lived with close to fifty other children in a small home set in a dusty village of Mexico. I met her several years ago while traveling with a large team of other college students. As our bus pulled up to the orphanage, curious children crowded around our mysteriously huge vehicle. They peered into our windows, looking with excitement and bewilderment at a large group of American visitors. As I stepped off the bus, a little girl was there to meet me. She instantly grabbed my hand and chose me as her friend for the day.

That day, from morning to well after sunset, Valeria was beside me. We played games, swung on the swing set, and talked with the help of translators. She was a shy girl, and mostly quiet. Yet, she wanted to be known. And not just known, but remembered.

As it came time for us to leave that evening, Valeria ran into her dorm and returned with a small, worn-out stuffed frog. She presented her gift to me, and I ached. I looked at this beautiful girl, raggedly clothed and covered in dust, and realized what a rich treasure she was holding before me. She had almost nothing, but would give anything in hopes of being remembered. I took her costly gift, sacrificially given, and I heard her silent cry—Remember me. So many have forgotten. Please remember.

And I remember her. I always will. Her face and name are imprinted on my heart still.

Along with Valeria, millions more sound their cries.

God give us ears to hear them. Cause us to remember, to love, and to pursue a forgotten generation.

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August 28th, 2012
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