For a long time, very long time, we all remembered and talked about the time.
I’ve never been to New York City nor D.C.. I’ve never travelled by plane although I’m beginning to entertain the possibility, romanticize the big “6-0”.
I do remember the morning of 9/11. I remember I was at DFCS in my little square office with a window on a hallway with other “welfare” workers who I considered friends.
I loved working with these people. I did.
My mama called, the children were in school an hour away and I cannot remember whether we closed the office and all of us went home.
Eventually, I was with them, home and safe with my husband.
Changed, not because I knew anyone there nor remotely understood their trauma, fear, tragedy. I had no idea.
I have no idea.
Yesterday evening, social media informed me of the death of a popular young pastor and mental health pioneer,
I felt afraid because of his story, suicide and its occurrence is to me “scary”.
Because it’s happening more and because I’ve been with those who have been knocked down by the tragic reality.
I find it scary.
I’m following the journey of a child named Eva, in an induced coma now and it all started with a tumble to the ground, a simple fall.
Her mama wrote about hope this morning in her Instagram.
I began to think about life and hope.
About tragedy interspersed with triumph because it seems to me this is life in this world, in most of our worlds.
I remember my mama calling on 9/11.
I remember the morning my brother called to tell me my mama was gone.
The loud moan that came up from my belly that morning must have frightened my admin, the others in the office next door.
She was gone.
I had prayed so very hard she’d be healed. I had talked with her about faith and hope, brand new and uncomfortable things for me.
Things I thought were real, my mama’s death like a test I failed, my hope was either wrong or not enough.
I stopped believing.
Because, she was gone.
Mornings like that, losses and tragedies linger.
Tragedy is interspersed with triumph though.
This is life.
I believe it.
So, how did I continue, they continue…the ones for whom today brings fatal remembrances?
I believe we must choose as best we can with God’s help.
To be well.
Be the one who is able to say.
It is well. Even so, it is well. Even though, it is well. Although and even if, it is well.
I have this hope in God, in Christ Jesus.
It is evident.
Hope that says despite the very worst scenarios…
“But this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope:”
Lamentations 3:21 ESV
Not a vacant or mystical hope, there are reasons for my hope.
A baby I call “morning glory” because it fits, evidence of long and woeful answered prayers and a new sense of God being near me, of Jesus being personally acquainted with me, in spite of tragedy and triumph and every mistake , silly or serious misstep in between.
It is well.
Decide to fight for yourself, to believe without the full understanding of why.
That God is sovereign.
It is well.
It is well with you.
All of us often out of rhythm, rocked by loss of life, out of kilter because of uncertain outcomes,
We are dwelling between two spaces, tragedy and triumph.
But, glory, new glory comes every morning and often if you notice, it’s interspersed in the midst of moments.
Continue and believe.
3 thoughts on “Be Well”
I was moved by your post Lisa. And this as I sit replying from 30,000 feet up on my flight from Dallas to NYC. Your thoughts remind me of:
Suicide is just a moment. This is how she described it to me. For just a moment, it doesn’t matter that you’ve got people who love you and the sun is shining and there’s a movie coming out this weekend that you’ve been dying to see. It hits you all of a sudden that nothing is ever going to be okay, ever, and you kind of dare yourself. You pick up a knife and press it gently to your skin, you look out a nineteenth-story window and you think, I could just do it. I could just do it. And most of the time, you look at the height and you get scared – You think about how sad it would’ve been if you never got to see that movie, and you look at your dog and wonder who would’ve taken care of her if you had gone. And you go back to normal. But you keep it there in your mind. Even if you never take yourself up on it, it gives you a kind of comfort to know that the day is yours to choose. You tuck it away in your brain like sour candy tucked in your cheek, and the puckering memory it leaves behind, the rough pleasure of running your tongue over its strange terrain, is exactly the same…
— Carolyn Parkhurst, The Dogs of Babel. (Back Bay Books, June 7, 2004)
I’ve heard and seen in others this exact sentiment, it’s a secret sorrow; really we are, for the most part incapable of affecting. This is why it’s scary. Stay safe, stay you!