About a boy ...

I met a boy in Greece on the weekend. Sol. This is his story:
He lived in Afghanistan. He was 2 when his parents left him. He lived on the streets, got in trouble, was abused, hungry, eventually sold batteries. He noticed westerners and dreamed of a better life in Europe. Last year he made his bold bid for freedom. After a long and perilous journey he made it to the Turkish border. Further perils awaited him. Under cover of darkness he decided to climb over the mountains to Turkey. He met another family in their ambitious bid for freedom - more ambitious in that grandma aged 80 was with them. Sol joined them and helped the old woman up the mountains through the night.
On the other side they were picked up by a Turkish border patrol. Sol escaped and after another long, hungry, thirsty, perilous journey eventually arrived in Istanbul. He was attacked by a gang and beaten. He survived. Just. Eeking out a barely sustainable life, begging, stealing, working, he met some other refugees on the run. Together they bought a rubber dingy and risked the final bid for freedom on an inflatable boat across the sea to Greece through the night, taking it in turns to paddle.
In Greek territory they were captured by Greek Coastgaurd. Freedom? The better life? Not quite - a refugee internment camp. Another escape. This time to Athens. Now sleeping rough in a park. Still hungry, tired, alone. Freedom? A better life?
Christians from a local church twice a week feed the homeless refugees in Athens. They meet Sol, befriended him, took him in, fed him, clothed him, loved him.
He lives now in the church. He is safe at least and has access to food and water and those who love him. He has come to know the love of God in Jesus Christ expressed through the caring folk in the church. "I don't know where my family are", he says. "The church are my family now".