Words are a Start
Words do not always seem enough, but often
It is how we try to make sense of what is.
Consonants and vowels blended together
To form expressions for what we have to weather.
Disjointed feelings wrestle inside our hearts
As we search for terms to bring us to term
With what we have seen and what we have heard -
Once again, our reality has been violently stirred.
Deep breath as the tears quickly brim with despair,
Here we are, again, entrenched in the too familiar.
We search for words to bring specificity
To a grim reality that offers little clarity.
We feel hopeless in this length of distance
Yet, simultaneously, quite close to the chance
That this distance keeps getting wildly closer
As this evil keeps pressing into our here.
Words are where we start to formulate -
They are part of the natural process that makes
Us very aware of our human need to grieve,
To sit in the anger and pain of what we cannot conceive.
To feel is our first response and often the hardest.
After all, to feel or emote draws us closest
To the notion that we are more connected
And, in this sadness, we are all affected.
It is possible to feel the loss, even if it is not our own.
We are capable of empathy and love that is grown
From relatable experiences of broken despair
Rooted in our own terrors from elsewhere.
With honest feelings and imperfect words
We breathe in the shock of another tragedy.
But before we blame, scrutinize, or defame,
We need to sit with the grieving and hear each name.
We will not remember every name or face
But we bring value to the lives lost
When we recognize they are more than a headline,
These lives mattered like yours and like mine.
We will not be perfect in our words or actions
As they are birthed out of our own brokenness,
But if we do not open ourselves to feel and mourn
We will find multiple reasons to hate and scorn.
In my last blog post, I wrote about my personal struggle to anticipate good things because I have been entrenched in some hard disappointments. A few hours after that post, the horrors from Uvalde, Texas were becoming known. I was so distraught, so broken as words and images were shared through multiple news venues. All senseless death is hard, but there is something about the senseless death of children that tends to hit us differently. It may be because, as a parent of young ones, we feel it on a maternal and paternal level. We cannot help but see the faces of our children, grandchildren, nieces, and nephews. We cannot help but wonder what that would look like here in our town, at our schools. It grips our heart strings differently because it feels closer than we really want to admit.
It also hit me differently because I spent years in classrooms with other people’s babies whom I always felt a maternal responsibility for. I sat in training to prepare for such devastation and I grappled with the fact that there may be a day when I would sacrifice myself so that someone’s baby could make it home that night. Texas illustrated the heroism of two beautiful teachers, two martyrs, and yet so many children still didn’t make it home. As an educator, we feel this deeply and the wound continues to fester as the world begins to analyze andd argue over whether a teacher is prepared for this. The answer is NO - educators are not special ops, military personel, or police.
In the days since, we have heard continued reports of devastation. We have read the statistics that there have been more than 200 mass shootings in America since the start of the year. We have heard city names that we never knew before. In all this listening, reading, and watching, there has been no time to grieve. We are bombarded by the next evil before we have had time to process what we just lost. In this abruptness, we tend to cave to the pressure to point fingers, blame, picket, scream, or find a scapegoat. Our pain just keeps stacking on top and there seems to be no space to breathe, to heal, or to purposefully plan appropriate action.
For me (and maybe for you) - I needed to find the space to feel this. My first response needed to be about processing this for myself, for my own children, and for the classrooms that I still work with. I needed to sit with God and ask the hard questions and tell Him that I didn’t think this was fair. I needed to emotionally respond and give my children space to do the same. I needed to be honest with myself and question how often I pray for the safety of the schools in my community. I needed to recognize that there is room for me to grow and ways that I can reach out differently to the hurting around me.
After we grieve and after we dignify the lives lost
We must then ponder the unspeakable costs.
In what ways have we bought into the lies
Or bolstered and showcased our own selfish cries?
Where have we turned a blind eye and refused to see?
Whom have we marginalized or, worse yet, silenced?
What storylines do we merely scroll through,
Refusing to ask ourselves “What can I do?”
What prayers have we halted or never even prayed?
In our own minds, do we harbor similar hate?
Like what we see at play on the screens and charts?
Is there evil poison breaking down our hearts?
Words are a start. They give us space to connect
With our own pain and the pain of our community.
Actions are necessary, too. But quite often the start
Of action begins with a look at our own heart.
May our hearts break with what breaks the heart of God.
His heart bleeds compassion and comfort for the hurting -
But His character demands justice for all wrongdoing,
That which is seen and that which has been silently accruing.
There is much that I cannot do because I am only one.
But there is much I can do because I am still one.
I can give dignity to people by seeing them in their need,
I can share hope and love by planting one positive seed.
God, help us to grieve with those who grieve.
Help us to process our pain before it continually stacks.
Pain tends to break us, it steals from us our identity
Because it highjacks our hope and our serenity.
If we never process our pain or help others in theirs,
A barrage of hurt will eventually implode.
Anger is birthed from pain and, if left unchecked,
We’ll face our own demons of hatred and neglect.
There are more questions than answers
Every single time, but we can make a difference
If we stop pushing people away in their agony
And embrace our call to deeply love humanity.
God - help us.
This hurts on repeat.
We are stacking in our anger
We are fighting real despair.
Too many have already been lost.
Daily, too many are paying a high cost.
We want to love others in their need
But are overwhelmed by images on our feed.
May we see those around us even now
And discern how to help somehow.
May we believe in the valor of the human race
Over anger, hatred, and disgrace.
This evil cannot be fought or won in a day
But every small step forward begins to make a way.
My friends, I realize that big conversations and actions must occur in our country. Some of them are happening and some are not. Some changes are absolutely necessary. For me, this conversation is not meant to incite rage, guilt, or shame. This is my struggle, my wrestle, and my journal. Grieving is exhausting, especially when we can’t catch a break to even breath in and out. However, even Jesus took the time to cry when He lost Lazarus. Jesus grieved for the people in Jerusalem, days before they hung Him on a cross. He exemplified for us the need to name our pain (or disappointment), to grieve our losses, to examine our hearts and motives, and then to take action by mourning with those who mourn and holding the unjust accountable for their evil actions. I know I often skip over some of these steps and then I feel the repercussion in my soul as I steep in bitter turmoil. Today, I choose to stop and grieve. To be honest with myself about the hurt. To talk to God about my anger and fear. To extend compassion to others around me. That’s where I need to be right now.
Until next time,
