Violence is...Violence

The clock read 12:43. The screaming outside my window had woken me up out of a dead sleep. My heart started pounding and I felt the familiar fear return. The elevated, angry voices of men and the desperate, pleading voice of a woman reverberated through the windows and sent panic into my soul. I didn't know what to do, again.

My mind raced back to my childhood home. I was eight or nine years old and had the singular privilege in my home of having my own room for a while. I had been soundly asleep when I heard the screaming, the voices raised in anger and hatred outside my window. My eyes popped open, and I checked to feel my racing pulse. I felt frozen. I don't know how long I stared at my ceiling, willing the voices to stop their horrible tirades, but at some point I slipped quietly out of my bed onto the floor next to the window. I peeked quietly through the metal blinds on my bedroom window, only to see a woman waving a gun crazily at a man. It was the neighbors two houses down, whose house I instinctively avoided. Whatever courage I had found to crawl out of my bed instantly failed me at the sight of the gun and I slumped to the floor in horror. The noise was so deafening to my childlike ears that I couldn't believe it hadn't awakened anyone else in my home. I wanted to run as quickly as I could to my parents room that was just across the hall, but my body felt covered in thick ice. Somehow my young mind told me that they had seen me look out the window and if I moved, I would be shot. I was paralyzed with fear. I don't remember how long I lay crumpled next to my window, freezing, but that memory is etched with precision on my psyche.

The clock read 1:04. The anger was escalating. I got up to call the police, but neither of my cordless phones were in their chargers. I was afraid to turn on any lights, unsure if the police arrived and emotions escalated any further they would somehow be able to determine the source of the caller and direct the anger to my home. I checked on my sleeping children, my husband was snoring soundly, even my dog was oblivious to the chaos nearby. So I went back to my room to pray. It seemed the only logical solution at that point. I needed to feel comfort, so I turned to the only Source of comfort that has never failed me. The pleading girl finally convinced the tirade to return indoors. The voices became more muffled, but no less violent.

My mind fled to our apartment in a huge city. My husband was attending graduate school and we had rented a place in the nicest area we could afford. It had its drawbacks, but in general I felt safe at home with our little daughter and newborn son as long as I had all the doors and windows locked. I was constantly aware of my surroundings and learned to live on the edge of fear most times. It was one of the things I disliked about city life as compared to my simple, small town upbringing. It was the middle of the night again, this time the challenge of a shared wall brought the violence right into my home. I could hear the woman screaming, pleading for the man not to hurt her. I heard his rough, bellowing voice threatening with hatred and horrible intentions. This time I had a husband laying next to me. I woke him up and we listened to the terror, again unsure of what to do. Surely we weren't the only ones hearing this. Surely someone else would call the police. If we did call, would we be safe? Would the situation escalate further? I didn't doubt the malice of his intent or the sincerity of his demands. My babies were sleeping in the next room. As the glass started shattering through the wall, I couldn't stand my proximity. The fear so enveloping, I grabbed my pillow and escaped to the furthest end of my little apartment away from the anger. The next day as I was leaving to take our daughter to preschool, the woman was outside her door waving a gun, a policeman there told me to go back inside immediately. I watched through cracked blinds again until the situation was under control. I went outside to ask the officer what was going on and he told me not to worry. Not to worry? The woman was evicted shortly after, but the fear lingered. I felt so relieved to move away from that place.

I guess somehow I thought that if we finally lived in a certain zip code or obtained a certain income level that those haunting voices could finally be put behind me. As I lay in my bed listening to the violent screams coming from the home next door, the home with a swimming pool and hardwood floors, I realized the universality of pain and anger. I wonder what had happened so many times before in that home, for it to finally reach the point it did last night. The moment where the anger and pain spewed outside of the walls and into the proximity of public perspective. I wonder why such terrifying displays are referred to as 'domestic violence'. The word domestic to me invokes visions of June Cleaver, freshly baked bread and white linens blowing crisply on a backyard clothesline. It doesn't bear any relation to what I heard outside my bedroom window last night. It should just be called violence.

I never know what I should do in those moments. Succumb to the fear that permeates my soul, race to the phone to call authorities to stop the horror for the people I'm hearing, drop to my knees for comfort and plead for everyone's safety. In that moment of now all too familiar terror, I found myself in mourning that I was there again - amidst the anger, too near to the violence, too close to danger. When will it ever stop?

I guess you never really know what people are dealing with. Tread lightly. Walk softly. Speak kindly. You never know what the voices were saying or what hearts were hearing the night before.

Helpless in Haiti

I sat at my kitchen table yesterday morning staring at the newspaper. Pictures of bleeding children, suffering people scrabbling through the rubble of what was once their lives, tears streaming down their faces. As their tears quickly became mine and I felt the moisture touch the pages of newsprint, I couldn't eat my breakfast. My half eaten bowl of cereal sat suddenly unwanted off to the side and I looked at my glistening glass of pure, clean ice water. People were dying from lack of water, the reporter said. Water. And all I had to do today was turn on my tap, place my glass underneath and drink from the fountain of life. I sat feeling helpless and guilty. How could I eat when people were dying, bleeding, suffering?

I heard of some religious leaders blaming the earthquake on wickedness in Haiti. Now I don't pretend to understand all the ways of God, and surely this natural disaster can be placed in no one else's hands but His. But the God I know would hardly punish an already poverty stricken, suffering nation with more calamity to humble them to recognize His hand. The Haitian people are decidedly religious, one report I read of a woman running down the road screaming, "We know you are the greatest, God. We know. You don't need to show us again!" So I wonder if in the midst of this horrifying devastation, God is not testing the faith of the devastated, but ours.

He surely has heard the cries and prayers of His suffering children there, even before the earthquake started. But have we? I wonder if God allowed this to happen so that we could no longer ignore the wearied, broken hearts of His children - their cries and sorrows suddenly front page news. I wonder if He is forcing us to finally see what so many of us have been choosing to ignore. I wonder if the calamity could have been stayed by His loving hand not if they had repented, but if we had.

I have been plagued by these thoughts, wondering what I could do to help. I have given my donation to the Red Cross. I contribute regularly to my church's humanitarian aid fund which has already begun to send hygiene kits and basic supplies over to Haiti. My husband will be working all day tomorrow, Sunday, to ready more soldiers to leave for Haiti. So many around me here in the military city where I live are giving more, yet again. I spoke with a neighbor who, with guilt in her voice, expressed her hope that her husband would be spared this assignment. You see, he just returned home from the war. He has already been gone for months and months, sacrificing himself to protect the innocent. The thought of having him leave already, even in the midst of the visible suffering, is incredibly difficult for their family. Yes, the soldiers are trained. Yes, this is why we have a military. Yes, they will go if they are asked to go. They will continue to sacrifice again and again to not only keep our country safe, but to provide hope and comfort and protection to weary nations throughout the world.

But I wonder. I wonder if every person in the world could view this tragedy for what it really is - a human tragedy. I wonder if instead of sending in our obligatory donations to the Red Cross, relying on our wonderful but wearied soldiers, and then turning off the news so we don't have to hear about the horrifying conditions in Haiti, we each rise up and do something. Something significant. Something of sacrifice. If God is testing us to see how we will react to His suffering poor, are we willing to get on our knees? Are we willing to humbly ask Him what we as individuals, with our unique set of talents and resources can do in this moment to make a difference?

Could we who have medical training leave comfortable homes and incomes to sacrifice our time and talents to help the wounded? Could we who are patients of those individuals walk into their offices with resources or donations or skills to keep their practices afloat in their absence? Could we who are their employees, their neighbors, their friends rally around them and send them over to help? Could we offer assistance to local firefighters, rescue personnel and those trained to deal with such significant situations so that they can go and help? Could we carpool their children, walk their dogs, shovel their walkways, buy their groceries? Could we forgo a dinner out, a new suit or a family vacation to contribute more? Could we fall to our knees in gratitude for our own blessings and then get up and go to work to share those resources with those in need? I wonder what would happen if suddenly private citizens everywhere were willing to sacrifice in significant ways in order to help those in need?

What can I do? God has given me the gift of words and I felt impressed to write today. What can you do? I don't know, but God does. We can each ask God that question, and when we ask with a heart willing to follow what He whispers, He will guide us. He will lead us to the resources and people and places where He can best use each of us. He wants us to help. He needs us to help. He can use you with your unique set of skills and circumstances to bless the poor and needy in every time, but especially now. When the cries of His suffering children can finally no longer be ignored.

Balancing Act

It's days like these that make me remember when I was a little girl. I grew up in a small town with not much going on from day to day, so it was a huge deal when the circus came to town. I remember how excited everyone would get and it would build for days before the actual event. I wasn't anxious to see the clowns, the lion tamers or even the man being shot out of the cannon. I remember being mesmerized by only one act - the tightrope walker. I remember my heart pounding as he walked up the enormous ladder to the tiny landing. I was flabbergasted when I realized there were no harnesses or safety equipment for him, just a very long pole. I sat transfixed in my seat, watching every careful step forward, waiting as he wobbled at times, using the enormous pole to recorrect himself and keep from falling. I'm sure I held my breath from the moment he stepped onto the wire until he made it safely to the other side.

I have had to learn how to be more careful in my life. This past year I have been plagued with illness and injury. As a woman who has never failed to find intrinsic drive to motivate myself to push harder and reach higher, I've had to return over and over again to the principle of balance. I have a fetish for calendars and lists. I love getting a new calendar each year and turning over a new page each month. I used to look forward to filling it all with with neat, organized events that were designed to help me accomplish my goals. I've had to learn to let go of much of that this year and simply focus on getting from day to day. As my health has slowly returned to me, I have found myself gravitating back to my old ways. It's been especially difficult at the start of this new year. It's time to set goals! It's time to make lists! It's time to fill up a new calendar!

I spent the morning yesterday making a six month plan, complete with daily, weekly and monthly goals. I was so excited and motivated. I was even feeling proud of myself that in the goal setting session I recognized some limitations on my time and decided to postpone several large scale tasks that will require some significant chunks of time that I simply cannot carve out for a while. So I just set them aside for now. I felt like I had found a happy balance between drive and realism. Then as I went to bed, I started feeling unwell again. That led to another sleepless night, another difficult morning just trying to accomplish the mundane, leaving me with a list that today felt impossible and unrealistic, even with the edits.

Perhaps it's my pacing. Part of the tightrope walker's ability to actually cross without tragedy was that he moved slowly, deliberately. If he had simply bolted out, he surely would have tumbled to his demise. He would take a step, then wait to let the rest of his body adjust to the new position, using his pole to help him find that place of quiet calm before taking the next step - and so on and so on until he reached his goal.

Guess I'm just in a state of constant adjusting, waiting for my body to get used to this deliberate pace and granting myself the time to find a place of balance before trying to move forward any further.

Just a daily balancing act...welcome to the tightrope!