Images of Grief and Grace

Once again, the headlines speak of an unfathomable tragedy in our country, only this time the culprit has no face, no pressure cooker bomb, and no accidental spark. Unlike the predicted, albeit unwelcome appearances of Katrina and Sandy, the tornado that tore through an Oklahoma City suburb left no name on its calling card. Yet call she did, and we once again are watching the all-too-familiar scenes of loss and devastation. Just as the images of grief and grace were present in Boston, Massachusetts, Newtown, Connecticut and West, Texas, so too are there images of the horrendous and the miraculous coming from Moore, Oklahoma.

The horrendous is everywhere in the photos flooding the news websites and network television news. Scary scenes from Plaza Towers and Briarwood Elementary Schools show injured children, courageous teachers, and heart-wrenching reunions. The aerial photos bear witness to the strength of this EF4 tornado that cut a swath of destruction through a community just like ours - lined with homes, schools, and a hospital. Some of the scenes look as though King Kong wandered into Oklahoma, tossing automobiles around with abandon, as though they were Matchbox cars.

One photo juxtaposes the red, white and blue of an American flag with a concrete angel kneeling in prayer on the hood of a damaged auto. Perhaps the photo was staged, but it serves as a reminder of the strength of our country, flaws and all, and of the power of faith in the face of tragedy, a thread that reaches upward and encircles  the grieving.

Because of my many years of ministry in the Salvation Army, I was especially moved by a picture posted on Facebook by Wendy Morris, a Salvation Army major who shares the leadership responsibility for Oklahoma and Arkansas with her husband Steve. The photo shows a battered pair of black dress shoes, scuffed and muddied as Steve surveyed the damages and worked to organize a response team from staff and volunteers. Wendy wrote: "Steve was able to get an hour's sleep last night between assessment meetings and interviews and he left again early this morning. As I was getting ready today, I was stunned to find his uniform shoes and realize all the places his feet had been in the last 24 hours."

When we tie our shoelaces each morning, we may anticipate a typical day, but, as our Oklahoma brothers and sisters discovered, not all days are typical. I think especially of teachers, heading into the home stretch in these end-of-school days, and of our safety forces, with the spit and polish shine to their shoes that comes from discipline and bravery. The shoes of those who extend a healing touch often move silently in the quiet ebb and flow of life, yet rush to respond when trauma strikes. Oh, if only our shoes could talk.

I thought, too, of the friend of a friend, who grabbed her barefoot children, piled them into the mini-van, and managed to outrun the twister. They spent a restless night with friends, not knowing what might remain of their home directly in the path of the tornado. Will they even be able to find a single shoe in the rubble? When confronted with so much damage, where do survivors even start?

Perhaps they too can begin with these same images, looking to the American flag, tattered yet still standing, proclaiming the support of Americans from sea to shining sea, who will do what they can to shore up the recovery process for those whose lives were blown to pieces in a matter of minutes. They can look for the praying angels, symbolic of the gifts of faith and hope that remain, even in the midst of the darkest night. And they can seek out the shoes of the helpers, those combing through the debris, walking the demolished neighborhoods with cups of cold water, setting up cots in the shelters, and coming alongside in the physical rebuilding and the emotional and spiritual restoration so desperately needed. A flag, an angel, and a pair of shoes -it's all there - grace in the midst of grief.

 

The Buck Stops Here

According to the Truman library website, President Harry S. Truman had a sign on his desk in the White House that said, "The Buck Stops Here." Not sure if the fact that this particular sign was made in the Federal Reformatory at El Reno, Oklahoma has any meaning, but Truman was known to quote the phrase from time to time, and its truth is one of the heaviest aspects of leadership.

Over our years of Salvation Army ministry, Larry and I learned this lesson all too often. When the nursery school teacher was accused of child abuse twenty-five years ago, it was our responsibility, and although the allegation was unfounded, there were many concerned parents and sleepless nights in its wake. When a trusted employee stole money, we had to take action even in the midst of our sense of betrayal. And, closer to home, when a car crashed through the walls of the Kroc Center or the spraypark malfunctioned on the hottest day of the year, the buck stopped with us. Sure, we had supportive staff that helped a great deal, but at the end of the day, it was still our problem and our responsibility regardless.

That's why recent headlines have trumpeted the scandals in the Justice Department and the IRS as belonging to the Obama White House. Prior to the past week, media sources would have been hard-pressed to put together a sentence that included the phrases Tea Party, Associated Press phone taps, and Benghazi attack, but that was before the ill-advised IRS profiling added its punch to the scandal list of 2013.

The Benghazi deaths were tragic, and it's questionable as to whether any policy decisions would have - or could have - prevented those assassinations. But in the other two scenarios, they began with reasonable questions: how do you identify groups using tax exempt status to potentially break the law (a task of the IRS), and how do you deal with a pattern of leaks, potentially dangerous to national security?

The question about leaks reminds me of the children's song, "There's a Hole in the Bucket." Henry discovers a problem - there's a hole in the bucket. "So fix it, dear Henry," Liza tells him. But when Henry tries to fix it with a straw, the straw is too long, so he returns to Liza for advice. When he tries to cut the straw with a knife, the knife is too dull, so he returns to Liza for advice. When he tries to sharpen the knife with a stone, the stone is too dry, so he needs to wet it with water from - you guessed it - the bucket. But there's a hole in the bucket . . .

Sometimes, when you're Liza, you simply want Henry to take care of the bucket and let you do your own work. You hire people you trust to do a job and assume the systems in place will provide adequate oversight. But, as anyone who has been in management of any kind knows only too well, sometimes people can't be trusted, and sometimes systems fail or get circumvented.

Yet when your job is to be the president of the United States or the mayor of West, Texas, the president of the Ohio State University or the principal of the local elementary school, or the Pope or the parish priest, the buck stops on your desk. Even if what happens isn't your fault personally, it is still your responsibility.

Over the years, Larry and I would look at each other from time to time and jokingly say, "That's why we make the big bucks." Yet for most of us, civic or community leadership isn't about the big bucks (or lack of them) - it's as Woodrow Wilson said, “You are not here merely to make a living. You are here in order to enable the world to live more amply, with greater vision, with a finer spirit of hope and achievement. You are here to enrich the world, and you impoverish yourself if you forget the errand.” Keeping that perspective, even when there's a leak in the bucket, is where the buck stops, no matter the shape of your office.

Happily Ever After . . .

In my desire to pass on my love for reading to my granddaughter, Madelyn and I enjoy a “read to me, Grandma” book that includes some of the classic children’s stories that existed long before Disney Studios. It’s a challenge to get all of the words on the page spoken before her three-year-old fingers seek out the next illustration, but when we get to the end of the stories, Madelyn is quick to utter the tag line – “and they lived happily ever after.”

O, dear Madelyn, how can I break the news to you that Cinderella may have flashbacks from her years of abuse at the hands of her step-mother and siblings, and that marriage to a prince can be demanding, especially when she’s only known him for a few hours? Snow White will surely miss the support of the seven dwarfs when she moves in with the prince, and the traumatic stalking by her mother figure, as well as her time in the glass coffin, will not easily be forgotten.

I’ve thought about that “happily ever after” wish as the story of Amanda, Gina, and Michelle has unfolded on the near west side of Cleveland. Day after day, their kidnapping ordeal was horrific, and while we hope and pray that these women find a sliver of peace in the days ahead, we know that there’s no Prince Charming to rescue them and no magic wand to obliterate their past. It will take hard work, extensive support, and determination to move ahead with their lives.

 It’s especially ironic that the public’s desire to know the gory details threatens to keep these women bound in the days and weeks ahead, at least until their fame fades from the media’s spotlight.  One long-time kidnapping victim, Jaycee Dugard, understands: "These individuals need the opportunity to heal and connect back into the world. This isn't who they are. It is only what happened to them. The human spirit is incredibly resilient. More than ever this reaffirms we should never give up hope."

How their families have suffered as well. Those who knew Louwana Miller, Amanda Berry’s mother, believe she died of a broken heart, and all three mothers walked through some of the darkest days of motherhood – the disappearance of a child into the abyss of the unknown. Upon her visit to the hospital, Gina’s mother, Nancy Ruiz, described her reaction: “We just grabbed each other and held on. There were no words - just hugging and kissing and crying.”

I watched the news broadcasts with a well of compassion for the mothers whose children haven’t returned, the children whose faces used to stare at us from milk cartons, but whose bodies may be buried in an unmarked grave by the side of a road. That’s the more likely scenario – while we celebrate the release of Amanda, Gina and Michelle, we know only too well that for every miracle story, there are all too many unresolved cases and tragic endings.  

As much as I wish otherwise, we live in a world with no promise of happily ever after. Even as we celebrate Mother’s Day, with its slobbery kisses, breakfasts in bed, and framed handprints in multi-colored splendor, we can taste the bitter-sweetness of the holiday. For amidst the joy of the day, the reality of life is that infertile women, bereft mothers, and grieving orphans of all ages will experience deep sorrow as well.

As a high school student in the early 70’s, I was drawn to the writing of Kahlil Gibran, and his words make sense on the subject:  “Your joy is your sorrow unmasked. And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears. And how else can it be? The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.”

And so it is. We contain our own joy as we cherish our mothers and our memories, but we too are mindful of the losses, and listen for the whispers of lament in the air. As Ruiz reminds us, sometimes all we can do is grab each other and hold on. Here’s to a joy-touched Mother’s Day.

A Purple Carpet

As I put the recycling on the curb this morning, I stared at our front lawn with amazement. The grass has been green for a few weeks now, with three trims already this spring, but today, our front yard was carpeted with purple. Hundreds of wild violets had sprung up overnight, joined by the bright yellow of their dandelion sisters, and I am absolutely delighted! Those April showers really were raining violets!

My husband doesn’t share my delight, however, for the lawn perfectionist I’m married to expects to see green, not purple and yellow. How can I find a way to sabotage the lawnmower for a few days so I can enjoy the kiss of color Mother Nature spread across our lawn?

Spring has also brought a parade of ants to our kitchen counter and office window ledge. I’m not quite as welcoming to them as I am to the violets, but they have been fascinating to watch for a few seconds before I send them to the Great Beyond. I’ve even seen a few trying to drag away the corpse of one of their siblings – I’m not sure what they planned to do with the body, but I didn’t give them a chance to express either their grief or cannibalistic tendencies. Since I don’t want them in my food or crawling up my arm, I’ve become an ant-buster, banishing them from my home with a vengeance.

While  spraying the ledges and squashing the wandering ants, I catch myself humming a few bars of The Ants Go Marching One by One song, a favorite of the lovely Madelyn Simone. At age 3, she’s at the stage where she gets fixated on a favorite song (The Ants), story (The Napping House) or movie (Wreck It Ralph). On our trip back to her house in Canton last week, we sang along with the Ants song nineteen times. Yes, I counted.

It’s been twenty years since I spent much time with a three-year-old, and I am seeing the world through a new set of eyes. Ants are fascinating friends, as are rocks, puddles, and tiny violets. A piece of ABC gum stuck to the supermarket floor demands an investigation, while bubbles dancing in the sunshine captivate our granddaughter for a long, long time. In her concentration, singing the same song or ‘reading’ the same book over and over again, she becomes familiar with one thing, not bombarded with the multitude of daily sound-bites that multiply faster than the violets or the ants.

I am learning some marvelous lessons as I sense the world through Madelyn’s eyes. I found a quote by Walt Streightiff who tells us there are no seven wonders of the world in the eyes of a child – there are seven million wonders. I tried to find him on the internet without success, but I’m convinced he must be a grandparent to know that. He’s absolutely correct – everything Madelyn sees begs to be touched, everything she touches demands to be explored, and everything she explores is to be regarded with awe and wonder. As Jodi Picoult describes it, “kids think with their brains cracked wide open,” a perfect description of wonder.

So where have we gone wrong as we’ve grown into adulthood? Where have we lost our sense of wonder? If, as Margaret Wolfe Hungerford is credited with saying, “beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” why have we – why have I – been willing to accept our culture’s definitions of beauty? I really do want to know who decided that manicured lawns were more desirable than flower-strewn meadows.

As I was finishing up this column, I heard the revving of the lawnmower engine, and I now know that my plea to save the innocent violets fell on deaf ears. I just hope they grow again in time for Madelyn’s next visit. If you happen to see the two of us on our front lawn, you’re welcome to come and sit a spell, take your shoes off, and join us as we count the delicate purple petals, wiggle our bare feet in the grass, and blow the dandelion snow into the sky.