Tonight we’re telling the story of smallpox. We’ll be remembering its victims as well and its heroes. There will be a few times tonight when we pause, to remember someone who played a part in that story. Preserving their memory as best we can.
The thing about the first group, though, is that we will never know their names. The river of history has eroded away any evidence of their identity. But they were someone’s daughter, or son, and someone’s friend, and they were loved by those around them. And they were in pain, covered in rashes, confused, scared, not knowing why this was happening to them or what they could do about it – victim of a mad, inhuman god. There was nothing to be done – humanity was not strong enough, not aware enough, not knowledgeable enough, to fight back against a monster that could not be seen.
For a long time, there was no hope – only the bitter, hollow endurance of survivors.
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