Syrian Refugee Children's Pictures

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My mother, sweet like basil, earns her credit with God. A tired hand with skinny fingers.  Prayer beads swing from  wrinkled fingers. My mother is like a tree rocking in the breeze between the needs of her children. Until we reach adulthood there will be no rest for her tired hands. For years she used these hands to tend to the needs of her babies. In my  eyes she is not just a struggling woman. She is no less important than the doctor who treated children with tender care, or the lawyer who defended them against injustice and assault. No less than the nurse who wakes to comfort them or the tailor who mends the clothes.