I woke up to the sound of a single car passing outside my open third floor window. I had dreamt a myriad of strange dreams, all deep, meaningful, with a strange and quirky stage-act quality. I rubbed last nights make up off of my eyes, and felt a sore throb in my stomach, an ache in my spirit. A shallow breath entered my lungs. I quietly wondered how many parents didn’t sleep at all last night, holding each other in retching sobs and blank stares, images of their precious baby kids reeling through their mind. Gut-torn by extinguished potential, lives on the brink of living fully, how beautiful they would have been. Instead, yesterday was an iron door slamming violently in one’s face when he thought he was standing in his own house. A vicious closure on something intrinsically wide open: young life.
Another car passed outside my widow and I sprang up out of bed. I couldn’t shake the sound of my student’s voices from my mind, their smiles and their sweet hugs. Unavoidable images commenced a coup d’état and stormed in to my head, images of their precious bodies being shot, images of losing our staff members and children; it wasn’t us, it wasn’t us, I reminded myself with an achey gratefulness; but it could have been.
Where am I? How did I get here? I just moved to Connecticut. This wonderful place has always been a part of my family and now it’s a part of my daily life. I’m suddenly homesick, I want to go home. I want to smell the Christmas tree at my parents house and remember that I’m still alive, remember my childhood, and not just this adult existence, seemingly isolated in time. I want to be near my family... But, the faint melodies of Christmas carols fade away completely and there are no sounds outside the window. Oh, these precious families.
Families are out there, dying, their spirits are dying; this will be their worst Christmas ever. Yet, my heart yearns for a moment of hope, and asks me questions: Is it possible for peace to settle in? Is it possible for sunlight to come in through the window, onto the carpet where a parent lay, warm their back, and let them breathe after a day and night of weeping? Can soul-healing rest be brought in a gift wrapped box with a knock upon their door? Can a song feed them compassion? My own answer: Helpless; we all feel helpless.
Truth radiates despite myself, through the stillness and the disdainful melancholy of the gray morning. For that I am so grateful, I count on it. I count on that permanent well that springs up within when all hope is lost, when life is stolen. Up it springs this morning.
This is the Truth: There is a peace, as strong as a warrior, yet as gentle as the ray of light on the carpet. It can consume one’s soul and hold it tight in an otherworldly embrace, like a heavy blanket; I have known this peace. Can a moment of the peace I have known be spared for these families? Is it even possible to catch tears in a torrential downpour of salty sea rain drops? Yes. I am desperate give a tender apology for my glimmering belief that Peace has His precious place in our lives, in our state, and in our world, for fear it may seem like a mockery of grief; however it is not mockery, it is determination to hope for our friends, so for that I do not apologize. We will grieve with them and cry with them, and we will pray for Peace.
Peace, oh God we come to You. You are Light in the darkness, you are Good among all of this evil. Peace, oh God, be. Be in the lives of these families, be patches of sunlight for their weary bodies, be harbors of safety for their sea-scarred souls, be small glimmers of joy in a day where they were robbed blindly of irreplaceable treasures. Be. with. our. friends. Oh, God of Peace, Be. We can only give the comfort we have received, and we need an increasing abundance to share with our neighbors. We look to You and You only as the Light that can bring Hope, there is no other.
In the name of the Lamb who shed His own blood, for Mercy on our behalf,
Jesus,
Amen.
