“Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh. . . . Rejoice in that day and leap for joy, because great is your reward in heaven” (Luke 6:21-23).
After "tagging out" and allowing my little prince to be held by his daddy a while, I went to the bathroom to ready myself for bed. Looking into the mirror at my shabby reflection, I noticed one of Afton's band aids was stuck to the center of my shirt. It had Superman pictures on the sticky ends, and when I turned it over, a spot of blood stained the center. I'm not sure when it was supposed to hit me. I had thought myself quite durable while discussing the horrendous shootings of this past week with friends and family, offering biblical truth and sound reasoning for the necessity of choice among God's creation, the depravity of man, and the "Problems of Pain" (as C.S.L. coins it so beautifully). Yet upon seeing this tiny speck of blood on a Superman band aid and feeling again the ache in my heart for the little boy in the next room, unable to understand why he needed to bleed at all, came the full realization of Sandy Brook. And it overtook me like a tidal wave. To see my child with a pin-prick, the inevitable scraped-knee or fat-lip, this is the challenge my heart anticipates and prepares for. Finding my baby in a pool of blood, his chest still and heart quiet…this cannot be what we, what anyone, is asked to endure. I sank to the bathroom floor in tears, asking God the question, "Is anything still working according to your plan?"
Surely, this cannot be what He meant when He said "take up your cross". How often have I crawled to the end of my bed where Afton's pack 'n play sits, watching intently in the darkness until I can make out the rise and fall of his chest. Life will teach you that when something seems too good to be true, it usually is. Already I brace myself to lose this "something" I find all too good to be true. I've been unable to shake the thought of that band aid; what if the bleeding never stopped? What if the precious soul of my child was unable to cling to his flesh any longer and I, frozen in another realm, was unable to help on his tiny heart. I envisioned each mother, father, grandmother, grandfather, sister, brother frantically beating their hands against the void - waking up each morning to false hopes of it all proving to be nothing more than a terrible nightmare. In the words of John Mark McMillan, "For all my revelating I just can't make sense of this gravity we're in". Lord, can we hope here? Do we dare? Has your creation fallen so far? Have we been "given over to ourselves" entirely? The very question of 'why' seems shallow now.
An organization called Youth with a Mission that I have had the privilege of serving alongside in the past, recently mourned the death of one of its many great leaders. Don Gillman and his wife served the people of Taipei, Taiwan for many years before his unexpected passing in November. There is no shortage in testimony of the deep contributions Don's 54 years of life offered the world. He passionately and unrelentingly displayed the love of Christ. In the wake of so many tragedies this past week, a particular story of Don's came to mind -- one he had shared with our missionary teams in Lakeside, Montana years ago. Don had traveled to Indonesia and was given the rare opportunity of touring an underground prison preserved from the 1960's in memory of those tortured and murdered in its mass genocide. Each room of the memorial held tools, stones and bedding still in place from the haneous acts. "It was painful to walk through", he said, with blood still staining a majority of the floors and walls. But the particular items present, causing him to stagger in anguish, were the pictures in each room of the prison. They displayed those chained and mutilated in their original positions of torture. He would not relay the details of these evil depictions, but he told us with a heaviness to his voice, that many were of children. Toward the end of his tour he found himself gazing into one frame of unspeakable horror, and as his thoughts lingered to those inflicting this torture. He suddenly uttered aloud, "These people, they aren't people at all … they're animals." And I won't ever forget what he said next. "God responded to me in a very rare and direct way. He said, 'Don, this is what you are capable of apart from me.'"
Looking at Newtown, I swallow hard with the same realization.
A professor of mine recently discussed the "unnatural darkness" that swept over the land following the crucifixion of Christ. I was intrigued by his specific translation from the Greek -- yes, how 'unnatural' the entire event seems. There is nothing natural about crucifying an innocent man, nothing natural about sending your only son to be tortured and killed by those you had sent him to save. Nothing natural about forgiveness. How high is this calling of unnatural grace? How deeply are we called to mourn with those who mourn and passionately "fix our eyes on the prize set before us?" (Hebrews 12) Surrounded by such "unnatural darkness", will we say (as only a centurion had the courage to), "Truly, this was the Christ"; Truly He is God and we are not. Truly, there is still a plan -- beauty amidst ash. Truly, there is rebirth, and surely … surely, we will see Him again…
With a heavy heart, my prayers are lifted daily for those who lost loved ones this past week. May they find comfort in the Great Comforter who was, is, and still is to come.
1John 3:2
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