There is an abject evil in the world that has taken our
breath away.
The people of Newtown, CT are on their knees, felled by the
heinous, unmentionable act of a killer who walked into an elementary school and
opened fire on its students and teachers.
The rest of us are on our knees, too: some in prayer, others
in despair, and still others as a reactionary double-over from the kick in the
gut elicited by an act of such unfathomable terror. It’s hard to speak of normal
activities with the sickening, shameful, pornographic violence our world has
seen.
Just when I think I’m about to resume the business of my
life, new waves of grief well inside me and I think of Newtown where mothers
are not Christmas shopping and teachers are not making gingerbread houses from
milk cartons. Siblings are crushed, families ravaged—ruined—at a time when
rejoicing and gladness should come easily.
In the aftermath of Newtown, one thing that comes back to me
is the image of that young girl on the news footage whose sweet, little face
was contorted in complete terror as she was lead from the scene with her class.
What kind of untold, collateral damage has been done to that
little girl, her friends, her teachers, the parents who got to school and
didn’t leave with a child? Above all else, it’s the image of that little girl’s
face that haunts me; her confused expression saying what the entire nation
feels inside.
Newtown could have been us. It could have been anyone.
Among the processing
going on via social media, I love the quote from Mister Rogers:
"When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my
mother would say to me, 'Look for the helpers. You will always find people who
are helping.' To this day, especially in times of 'disaster,' I remember my
mother’s words, and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so
many helpers - so many caring people in this world."
Am I the only one wishing I lived in his neighborhood right now?
I have taken to repeating those words when talking to my children about
Newtown. I keep telling them—thus, myself—to look for the helpers. Where you
see the helpers, you’ll know that’s one of the ways God is working in the lives
of these hurting people, I tell them. I really, really want to mean it.
So I’ve started looking around here for helpers. The day of the
shooting, I went to pick up my kids from school to find that our trusty
crossing guard (the same one who always flashes the “I love you” sign when
families pull into the school) had arranged for Santa and Mrs. Claus to stand
outside with her and visit with kids.
I’ve been engaged in several Facebook shares offering,
simply, peace and support—no political rants or too-soon petitions—but love,
from our hearts to theirs.
I watched our President deliver a nation’s condolences to
that broken, bewildered community, and echoed his sentiment and sadness.
I watched a video, posted by my dear friend, of her precious
son singing—appropriately— O Come, O Come, Emmanuel at his voice recital. It
was beautiful and moving.
I sat in the sanctuary of my church yesterday morning while
my pastor and friend shared about the breaking heart of God, whom he imagines
to be standing beside us in our grief, putting the world back together. Moments
later, the children of our church sang to us about a Savior.
Come, Emmanuel, indeed.
I think some of the real helpers are working with my kids
today. I am deeply grateful for the loving, living examples of helpers I see in
the schools my kids attend. Our elementary school principal, along with her her
staff, is in the trenches everyday—long before we arrive and long after we’ve
gone home—working, thinking, creating ways to help kids learn. Often, her
efforts aren’t so lofty. I’ve seen days when she worries first about a child
getting breakfast, much less acing a multiplication test. I imagine her
visceral reaction to Newtown, and want to hug her, thank her and be a helper,
too.
The same goes for the teachers. I have no doubt that the
teachers of my kids caught wind of Newtown’s tragedy and began a painful
process of getting through the day without letting the students see their
heartbreak. I’ll bet they were simultaneously counting kids, reviewing
lock-down procedures, hugging little bodies and grading papers. That night, at
home, I’ll bet they came apart like the rest of us. But today is Monday and
there they are: back again to shape our future.
Thank you, helpers. I’ll keep looking for you, and make
every effort to be one, too. And thank you, Fred Rogers, for giving us a way to
help navigate through this ineffable pain until we find ourselves being your
kind of neighbor.
