In the heart of a dense jungle, hidden from the eyes of men, a baby monkey was born under a moonless sky. His mother lay exhausted, trembling from the effort, her eyes filled with love and fear. He was small, fragile, and quieter than the others. He did not cry or cling, and his fur was patchy and dull. The elders said he was born under an unlucky sign. The troop looked on with pity and distance — for the jungle, though wild and rich, is cruel to the weak.
But above, unseen and eternal, God watched.
God, who counts every feather and falling leaf, bent low over the earth and whispered a blessing over the baby monkey. A quiet promise, wrapped in mercy: “Though your life be sorrowful, I will never leave you.”
From the start, life gave him the bitterest fruit. His mother, gentle and weak, struggled to feed him. Other monkeys pushed them aside at feeding times. He learned hunger first — its ache, its silence, its sting. Then he learned loneliness, for even the young avoided him. His play was with shadows and leaves, never with brothers. He listened from afar to laughter, always on the outside of joy.
Storms came and he had no one to curl beside. Droughts came and he ate the bitterest roots. Wounds came and no one licked them clean. Time came, and he did not grow strong. He limped early in life, from a fall no one saw. The world, it seemed, had written him off — a life barely begun and already mourned.
Yet, the blessing remained.
It did not come as ease or comfort, but as endurance. The little monkey, though weakest, survived. He watched the strong fall in pride. He saw the cruel fade into silence. He stayed soft in a hard world. And God’s blessing was this: he never turned bitter. Though unloved, he still watched the sunrise with wonder. Though unfed, he still shared what he found with birds and beetles. Though unseen, he still danced alone in the rain.
In time, the jungle changed. The troop weakened from within — greed and fear spreading. The baby monkey, now older and worn, remained pure. A new mother, once unkind, now watched how gently he treated her child. Slowly, respect replaced mockery. The troop began to see what God had seen all along: not strength of body, but strength of spirit.
When he died, under a canopy of stars, the wind hushed. Leaves bowed. And every monkey knew — they had lived beside a soul touched by something holy.
For God’s blessing had not spared him sorrow, but gave meaning to it. He was the poorest in body, richest in grace. The saddest in life, yet most blessed in love by the end.
And in the heaven of beasts, where the gentle are honored, a small monkey walks tall, free of pain, finally embraced.
