We could talk of a culture saturated in violence. Or about the effects of isolation or untreated mental illness that so often leads to acts like these.
We could speak of innocent life stolen by evil and ask how God can allow such things to happen.
We could cry or bury ourselves under covers or numb out at yet another expression of a world gone horribly awry.
We could think about those forever altered by the horror of a masked gunman opening fire among holiday shoppers in the food court at a mall in Clackamas, Oregon, about 30 minutes from my house.
Or about the children (growing up in my hometown) now facing life without their father — a man called an encourager to all he met, a coach of youth sports teams, a man with a continually hopeful outlook — or the hospice nurse, wife and mother, who loved being outdoors and avoided the mall.
Or we could say prayers for the teenage girl in serious condition at the hospital, recovering from multiple gunshot wounds and a collapsed lung — a girl who earlier this year survived a major car accident with other members of her family.
We could wonder at the young woman trying to fall asleep at night with visions of the semiautomatic weapon that had been pointed straight at her. She might relive over and over again how her feet stayed stuck in place when she thought she’d be one to run, and how the shooter’s bullets passed right by her as she huddled behind a small stool at the cupcake kiosk where she’d only begun work a week ago.
We could wonder about the children and teenagers who saw what they saw, those parents huddling in dressing rooms with their babies, those store employees who helped customers run to safety, and we can remember that in every tragedy, heroes do the work of everyday people who find themselves in the jaws of fear and horror and do a small thing, a huge thing, the thing before them to do.
We could remember those for whom Christmas will never be the same. The families of the dead and the physically and emotionally wounded, the family of the young gunman, who shot and killed himself after the horror he created.
Early Tuesday evening, I read about the shooting on Facebook and thought instantly of my family who shop at that mall, and my voice caught when I left the message for my dad, and I could hardly spit my words out, “Just wanted to make sure you’re okay.” My papa called, and they were home.
I listened to the radio out of earshot of the kids, and Michael and I watched the 11 o’clock news.
I wondered aloud at the miracle that more were not killed in this mall filled with 10,000, but then it’s not a miracle for the families who lost the one they loved, I said.
Tuesday night, Michael and I talked about tragedies that happen everyday. Those killed and maimed by war, those dying slow deaths from disease and starvation. He mentioned a recent storm in the Philippines that killed more than Hurricane Sandy, and said, “I bet most people don’t even know about it.”
And I had to admit, sadly, that I didn’t.
I thought about all this and cried and couldn’t stop crying because it all felt so hopeless, though I know in the end, at the very end, it’s not at all.
But this moment in time felt different because I’ve walked on that ordinary ground, onthose shiny tiles under Christmas garlands and lights.
Clackamas Town Center is the place where I first ice skated with Kerryn, the mall where I bought my prom jewelry and purple Dyeable shoes, the mall where I sung “The Greatest Love of All.” This was the mall of my childhood and the place where I wrote articles for the Oregonian about the lady who worked at the wig kiosk and the fountain where thousands of coins were collected each year for charity.
This is the mall where I prayed for a clerk in Claire’s jewelry store when she told me how ugly she felt with the burn across her face, how she was completely unlovable. I put my arm around her and told her she was treasured, that she was beautiful, that God loved her and that she was created for a purpose.
Tuesday night, I struggled with the sorrow and even a surprising sense of loneliness as I felt the chasm between Michael and me for the different ways we feel what we feel in times like these. I go to the depths and allow myself to sit with the questions. I need to do that sometimes. And Michael hears me, and then proclaims light is greater than darkness.
He’s right, and yet it doesn’t stop the feeling.
In the darkness of my girls’ room I feel the ache, the desire to hold them close to me and close the world out. I pray for protection, health and life not only for them, but for the lonely and the gripped by fear, for those with whom they share this world.
I prayed as I touched their perfect silky hair, their small arms.
I cried and couldn’t stop crying for this world, and I don’t know how I would walk through this life if I believed this was all there is.
I woke Wednesday morning, and the bags under my eyes still filled with the tears.
So I’m sitting in the not understanding and the closeness and faraway of it at once. I don’t have any answers. Only a knowing of the sorrow of these earthly bodies that hold pain and trauma, fear and joy and celebration. These precious frail lives.
Each one — somebody’s baby.
And as I send my babies into the world, l am trying to remember the light that is greater than dark.
_________________
Linking today with Imperfect Prose, at Emily Wierenga’s place.
Connecting through the power of stories written, spoken and lived
![Sometimes nothing says it quite like the way of a child. Before the rest of the house wakes, I read the account of Easter morning in the Jesus Storybook Bible: "And it seemed to [Mary Magdalene] that morning, as she ran, almost as if the whole world was singing for joy-- the trees, tiny sounds in the grass, the birds...her heart." The tomb is empty. Jesus is alive, and so are we. And it is new. Once again. Yes, it is always new...He is risen indeed!](https://scontent.cdninstagram.com/t51.2885-15/s320x320/e35/17934124_1877271335863004_8139172358331039744_n.jpg "Sometimes nothing says it quite like the way of a child. Before the rest of the house wakes, I read the account of Easter morning in the Jesus Storybook Bible: \"And it seemed to [Mary Magdalene] that morning, as she ran, almost as if the whole world was singing for joy-- the trees, tiny sounds in the grass, the birds...her heart.\" The tomb is empty. Jesus is alive, and so are we. And it is new. Once again. Yes, it is always new...He is risen indeed!")
Somebody’s babies…
You’ve taken the words from my heart, all the ones I couldn’t speak, and read them to me. There’s nothing I can add…but my tears to yours…
Thank you, Mama. I treasure those tears shared. Truly.
More tears here, beautiful Ashley. And a heart spilling with love for your heart and all other hearts.
Thank you for your courage–for warming me & so many lucky others with your precious light.
Thank you for sharing with me in the places of joy and pain. Grateful for you, friend, and the way you shine.
ash, it is strange. i too got my ugly purple dyeable shoes there. i sold handbags in that macy’s and hated it. i worked at papyrus with sherry. i had many dates with my mama at the muffin break eating a blueberry muffin & vegetable soup. the thought of this masked kid shooting there hurts those memories to me. like innocence has been taken away. what is even worse is that hearing of another shooting just sounds normal. that bothers me the most. i think of all the teenagers with problems that josh works with and wonder how many are close to the edge. this world is a war zone. but jesus says to take heart…for i have overcome the world. i’m hanging on to this truth as another tragedy is added to the pile. i love that your heart is broken for this world. more than ever i am feeling the same. i love you pal…and i love that we share the mall of our childhood. xoxo kinny
Kinny, thank you, buddy, for sharing those memories with me. You are so right. This cannot become normal. We cannot accept all those falling off the edge. We cannot stand by as innocence continues to be stolen. It’s appropriate that our hearts be broken and that we continue to call on the Mender. I love you and your heart, friend.
Oh Ashley, I am crying with you and I know our Pappa God does to. Remember how Jesus cried at Lazarus’ grave. My dear friend, we don’t have the answers, but we do know that this will all come to an end. The day will come when our Lord will make everything new, with no more sorrow, tears or pain. I am praying for you, dear One!!
Hugs and love to you XX
Mia
Thank you for your loving compassion, Mia. After the events of the last days, I’ve continued to remember Jesus’ own sorrow over this hurting world, continued to cling to the truth that he is with us and above us and will make all things new.
This one really hit home for you.
Even in your processing, though, even in the dark, friend, I sense Light in your words. Because you are continuing to seek Him and scour the horizon for answers tells you that He is at work within.
May all our questions and longings teach us what it means to wait. in. hope.
He will come again . . . He always comes again.
Blessings on your brokenness. Joining you there.
Kelli, thank you so much, dear one. That was my prayer — that even in my searching, there would be shred of hope. Yes, over these last days, continuing to seek him and this: “May all our questions and longings teach us what it means to wait. in. hope.” Yes. Much love to you.
I really do understand and perhaps felt something most closely akin to this when I visited (with my brother, who was in the Navy at the time) Pearl Harbor. I remember looking at that list of names and just weeping, saying: “They had sisters.” We’re not at all safe, physically; that’s why it’s so important to be sure of our eternal home. God bless, Ashley. I’m sorry you were rocked so close to Christmas.
Oh, Brandee. Thank you for sharing your compassion and memories of Pearl Harbor. You are so right. Safety in this world is not something to be grabbed. But our eternal home…that is something different altogether. Bless you as you journey this season with such a tender little one.
I know God makes the ugly beautiful, will make all new, and take all pain away and there will be no more tears….but today in our flesh it hurts and we ache. I ache with you friend, knowing in the deep places of my heart that He will make it all new and lovely. Come Lord Jesus. Your pain is laced with hope in Him. I wonder sometimes how those who don’t write, as you and I do, process pain. Writing gives us a way to write out of the pain. Grateful for the gift and grateful for you.
So thankful for you and your words here. What comfort and love you speak. I, too, am grateful to write it out and to share in the journey — of words right from the depths — with you. So much love to you.
Tragedies always force questions. Explanations offered do not diminish nor end the agony, anger, sadness and palpable loss. Closure comes to some.To others life will be forever altered and time will not heal all wounds.
Yes, Papa, this: “Tragedies always force questions.” So true, and so often there are none on this side of forever. That is another kind of pain, isn’t it? Thank you for abiding with me here. I love you.
I love how your writing causes me to pause and reflect on life and God’s truth. The last couple of days I have been going back to John 8:12 over and over again and your writing reminded me of it…”I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.” So thankful for the light of Jesus and promise of heaven!
Amen, dear Darcy. Amen.
Thanks for the open grappling, Ashley. It was hard to hear this news so close to my heart-home, but so far away. I also was concerned for my family’s safety. Relieved that they were ok, and almost guilty to feel so relieved when still someone and their family weren’t ok.
I know exactly what you mean, Shelley.
Ashley, please visit Elizabeth, here: http://www.justfollowingjesus.com/2012/12/in-aftermath-of-senseless-act.html
xo
Thanks so much for sharing Elizabeth with me. I found great comfort in her words.
I love that you feel it so deeply, and that you give such power to that feeling through your words. I am sitting and mourning with you, grieving that this world is so broken and longing with you for that light.
Thankful for those like you, friend, with whom I can cry out, wrestle with this world and what is true. Longing for the light…
I am finally reading this post as we grieve yet another horrific shooting spree today with significantly more fatalities (20 of which were children) then our local one & wondering what kind of a world we are raising our children in!?! It’s sooo disturbing, yet somehow we know God is HERE & will use these events to draw many to Him!
Crying with you Ash & trying to remember that “light is greater than darkness”!
It is so disturbing and painful. Unfathomable, really. Crying out and trying to live out the light with you friend.
I live ten minutes north of the mall and my youngest daughter works across the street from the mall. I wrote about this at imperfect prose as well. I’m so happy to “meet” you here, but wish it wasn’t this tragedy that made me realize we had something in common.
The news of the shootings in Connecticut this morning are so heart wrenching.
Our world has gone mad it seems…
So thankful to have read your words, Elizabeth, and visited your beautiful space. Yes, sad to meet under these circumstances, but I am grateful for your level, truth and grace-filled response, and for you proclaiming love and light in the midst of the dark. Grateful that your daughter was not hurt.
I didn’t read this until today…it seems even braver now. Gorgeous Ashley…I sort of want to build a bunker in the mountains but I know that isn’t the answer.
Melissa, I so hear you. Thank you for being here. Sending love and peace.
Dear friend, thank you for this. For these brave, honest, ultimately hopeful but grappling words. Such sweet memories you have in that place, I can only imagine how close this hit in sorrow to your heart. I’m so sorry. I’m right there with you, one who needs to go to the depths and allow myself to sit with the questions. This world breaks my heart. And though I know, with you, it’s not all hopeless in the end, it’s important to not brush it off in the meantime. I sat in bed crying last night as my mind went, trying to imagine (not that I even could) the horror of these shootings, of yesterday’s huge death toll and all these lives just broken in a moment, and you’re right – everyone processes this different. My husband said to me, “Don’t think about sad things” – I think because it was late at night – but I just can’t look away like that. Hugs and love to you.
So much love to you, my deeply loving, caring, feeling friend. Touched, too, that you might find hope in my grappling. Often times, that’s the only way I can get to the real hope. Much love to you.
bookmarked!!, I like your blog!
Thanks for your comment.