“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).
Grounded. I feel grounded - a yearning for flight. Madness encompasses my TV screen, my radio. I'm lingering on every young face passing me at the grocery store a little longer than usual, needing to somehow be certain they never slip from their mothers fingers. This weekend, Afton had his fourth-month-shots. I was handed a pamphlet by his pediatrician on just how necessary and prophylactic these were and reassured that I was a good mother for seeing to it that he received his scheduled immunizations. The front page had pictures of healthy-looking moms holding their chubby children, gazing into the eyes of one another with euphoria written all over their faces. The children even had band aids on their arms, indicating that any and all procedures had been completed prior to the snapshot. I studied these pictures for some time, immersing myself in the colors so as to be sure I didn't see the injections taking place on my sweet baby's tiny thighs. Since I indeed cried harder than he did during his last blood-draw, the nurses suggested I stand back and allow them to "take care of things". I looked too early…perhaps on purpose, just in time to see his precious smile fade into consummate misery. His current screams (bless his heart) equate that of a 13 year old girl at a Justin Bieber concert, and they pervaded the halls, waiting room, and surrounding parking lots of the doctor's office. I remained calm, nursed, sang-to, and cradled him tightly in my arms until the tears subsided. After a number of errands we arrived home and it was as though the entire ordeal revisited him in great detail. He was in agony again. My evening was immersed in experimental measures of reassurance. Eventually my husband got home from work and found me half asleep on the floor with him in my arms, murmuring repeatedly, "every little thing is gonna be alright..."
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.
