I have just deleted the blog I had intended to publish today, but strangely enough I think the title needs to stay.
I have been awash in emotion today. I awoke to yet another day of rare, pristine fall weather that I have not experienced in this part of the country in a number of years. I rose from slumber feeling at peace, happy, fulfilled, purposeful. Then I came into my office and sat down to listen to my latest download, Steven Curtis Chapman's, "Beauty Will Rise," which is the griefwork put to music of the Chapman family after the loss of their sweet little five year-old Maria over a year ago. When I heard the words to some of the songs, I immediately felt a pang of identifying with the bittersweet sentiments of intense loss and a holy grief, one that is observed by many people but privately lamented and deeply mourned. And then the panicky, sick feeling as the events at FT Hood unfolded this afternoon. The scrambling for information, contact with loved ones, waiting, uncertainty, and the undeniable stench of death.
I was so struck in many ways by the Steven Curtis Chapman CD that I was moved to devote an entire post to it; as luck would have it, I got busy and had to walk away from the post, saving it for completion at the end of my day hours later. How would I know what events would end up ruling the day and taking priority in my mind?
As of this post, the latest numbers and information is staggering: 13 dead, at least 30 wounded. The shooter's smiling face has been plastered all over news channels, and the assumptions and foregone conclusions are swirling like a Kansas twister across the networks. No matter what finally emerges as fact or fiction, this entire event is beyond sickening in more ways than one.
Being a creature with selfish tendencies, I internalized today's events in such a different way than most. I was immediately rushed back to November 29 and 30, 2005. I felt the numbness again in my arms and legs that I had felt upon hearing about T's motorcycle accident, driving past the wrecker loading up the demolished bike, the ambulance in the bay, the swath of trauma personnel hovering around him in the ER, the thwocking of the medivac rotors as they waited to rush him off to a trauma center in Shreveport, the waiting in uncomfortable waiting rooms for a shred of information, wondering what shape he would be in when I finally got to see him, wondering if he would be in the hospital for a month or if he was going to die. Then I remember hearing my Casualty Assistance Officer's voice on the phone, going through the steps of making final arrangements that seemed so surreal. This is really happening? To me? To him? What?!? But he was getting ready to deploy -- this sort of thing doesn't happen until the guys are deployed. He was only coming home from work, we had just gotten off the phone -- are you sure you got this right? What am I supposed to do now?
How many new widows are there at FT Hood tonight? How many people saw a soldier in a Class A's show up at their door with a commander or a chaplain? How many people now know what a Casualty Assistance Officer is going to help them do over the next couple of weeks? How many parents are finding out that there will be one less table setting at Thanksgiving three weeks from today? How many kids get to celebrate Christmas next month without their parent? How many babies are going to be born into a single parent family?
I don't even have to be up at Scott & White trauma center to feel the tension pulsating from the hearts of these families, waiting on pins and needles to hear news, any news at all about whether their soldier will make it or whether they have been shoved through Door #2 without their permission, a door which locks after you pass the threshold and has no doorknob on the other side. It's a one way ticket to a life you never thought would be yours.
The fact of the matter is this: tomorrow is not promised. Not for me, T., Maria Chapman, or any of the soldiers who died today. Not for you or your loved ones. I've said many times that, as military spouses, we brace ourselves for the possibility that our loved one may not come home to us alive from a deployment. We do not prepare ourselves for something like what happened today, or like what happened to me. And why not? Who knows. Any number of reasons I guess.
I can only hope and pray that these new Gold Star families will draw close to one another and to God as they grieve and struggle in the days, weeks, months, and even years to come. And I hope that we can all give them a wide berth to do so and to unconditionally love them through this process. I hope that they will find the tiny pieces of grace and hope in the ashes of their lives and use them to weave a new tapestry, one that will blend together their past love and the new life toward which they will have to move, just as even I daily move toward my new reality. The title song on Steven Curtis Chapman's new album is about this exact topic -- how beauty can rise from these tragic, astoundingly painful situations. It is a lifeline to cling to when you are sinking, just praying that what you're going through won't swallow you alive. If you can hold onto the idea that God will redeem this pain and use it to God's glory, then just maybe something beautiful can emerge that you would have never thought possible as you were going through it at the time.
I wanted to embed this song from YouTube but it doesn't want to cooperate. To be blessed by this song, I implore you to download the album or listen to it here. Even in the midst of absolute pain and grief, I truly believe that beauty will rise.
+ May the Holy Spirit encamp around the ones who are hurting tonight and give them rest and peace for the difficult days to come. Amen.
