For ten years, WalkWithMe.global has had the privilege of walking alongside our partners in Lebanon, Together for the Family.
Over the years, many of the stories we have shared from Lebanon have been full of joy. Smiling children. Classrooms filled with laughter. Plates of food. Safe spaces. Small moments of childhood restored. And, when children are in school, when they are fed, when they are surrounded by people who know their names and care about their future, joy is not hard to find. It shows up in their faces.
More than 1.2 million people have been displaced. That number is hard to absorb until you remember what it really means: families. Mothers trying to keep their children calm. Fathers searching for a safe place to sleep. Children who should be sitting in classrooms, playing with friends, and learning their lessons, now living in those same school buildings because their homes and neighborhoods are gone.
Our doctor with Together for the Family, who runs the medical clinic at our center, is responding alongside the entire TFF team. They are out in the community providing medical care.
Schools that were meant for books, lessons, backpacks, and the everyday sounds of children learning have now become shelters. Classroom floors have become places where families sleep, wait, and try to imagine what comes next after losing their homes and neighborhoods.
Even there, in the middle of so much uncertainty, our Together for the Family team is creating safe spaces for children. They are organizing activities that give children something steady to hold onto, a little structure, movement, laughter, and care when life around them feels anything but normal. These moments may seem small, but for a child carrying fear and loss, they matter deeply.
And this is where our partners continue to show up. Not from a distance. Not with empty words. They are there in the schools, in the neighborhoods, and beside the families who are trying to begin again. Top of FormBottom of Form
But, some stories in this current crisis come from beneath the rubble.
Aline, one of five siblings, woke from unconsciousness into a world she no longer recognized. Around her was broken concrete, collapsed walls, dust, silence, and the remains of a home that had once held warmth, laughter, and ordinary family life. The place where her family had lived had caved in around her.
Above her, a large stone hung dangerously, as if it could fall at any moment. Then she heard her father’s voice. Faint. Choked. Trembling.
“Are you alive?”
In that moment, nothing else mattered. Not the house. Not what had been destroyed. Not the memories buried beneath the debris. Only one thought filled her mind: she had to get to her parents. They had to make it out alive.
Aline tried to answer, but her body would not respond. She was trapped beneath the weight of the rubble. Then, as the shock slowly gave way to awareness, she remembered. This was supposed to be a joyful day for her family. It was Easter, a day of faith, hope, and celebration. From somewhere deep inside, Aline began to pray silently for herself. For her family.
With a strength she could not explain, Aline began to move.
Every part of her body hurt, and every movement felt impossible. But somewhere beneath the dust, beneath the fear, beneath the weight of the rubble around her, something inside her refused to give up. Slowly, painfully, she shifted what she could. Inch by inch, she pushed through the debris. There was no clear path out. No easy escape. Only broken concrete, darkness, and the desperate will to live.
And then, by what can only be described as a miracle, Aline found them. Her mother was alive. Her father was alive. And somehow, against all odds, all three of them made it out together.
They stepped out of the rubble wounded, shaken, and covered in the dust of the home they had lost, but they were alive. In a place where death had come crashing through the walls, life had somehow remained.
Aline was alive, but she was also carrying the weight of a question no child should have to ask: “Why me? Why was I saved while my friend was taken?” There are moments when survival itself becomes heavy. When gratitude and grief sit side by side. When a person is thankful to be alive, but still brokenhearted over those who are not.
Outside the rubble, grief was waiting. Her friends, other families who had been in the same building. They did not survive. These beautiful children did not make it out. Their entire family was gone in an instant.
I wish I could take you into the real stories on the ground of people and children we know. It’s not a distant story on a news cast. Aline’s story is one of many. This is why our partnership in Lebanon matters. We are present with children and families in seasons of joy and seasons of devastation. We have celebrated with them, fed them, taught them, comforted them, and stood beside them when life became unimaginably hard.
Some days, the work looks like a classroom full of smiling children. Other days, it looks like sitting with a child who has survived the rubble and helping her believe there is still a future in front of her.
Both stories matter.
And both are part of the work.
