It was only three weeks before Christmas. There was a group of Indians outside the mission church at Anamar watching it burn down. The wooden structure was gone in only a few minutes. More than three hundred churches had been burned down in the past two years. Padre Jose’ Pasion spoke to the people. “We will rebuild. Evil will never win. The gates of hell cannot prevail against the church of God . Our security is not in a building; it is in the presence of Jesus. Those who follow Christ must be prepared to suffer in this world.”

     Several women were crying loudly. Evita Uriba was thirty, but looked like sixty. Her only son was shot and died in the fire. Evita turned to those around her and furiously questioned, “Why did God let this happen? Where; where is he? He doesn’t love me anymore.”

Trying to comfort her, someone next to her told her, “Garcia tried to get your son out and got burnt on his legs.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but I can’t understand why my Gilberto had to die so young.”

 Others spoke: “Seina also got shot.”

“Do you think she will live?” “Yes.”

“Angelino said he saw some drunk white youth in the area; he thinks they started this.”

“Where will we have services Sunday?”

“We will have services right here.”

“Evita, your son is in a better place; I know he is in heaven.”

“That doesn’t help me! Your good words don’t take away the pain I feel now!”

     Without hope.