He prayed — it wasn't my religion.
He ate — it wasn't what I ate.
He spoke — it wasn't my language.
He dressed — it wasn't what I wore.
He took my hand — it wasn't the color of mine.
But when he laughed — it was how I laughed,
and when he cried — it was how I cried.
by 16-year-old Amy Maddox of Bargersville, Indiana
Monday, April 13, 2009
Very powerful, folks. Especially given the age of the writer: