11. 12. I know kids this age. They think so creatively it's hard to keep up. Their bodies are beginning to outgrow their capacity to control their movements. They are wicked smart, and you think twice before you ask, "What's on your mind?" because they will still tell you.
They delight me almost always.
20 mothers and dads, twenty families, in Newtown tonight are wondering what their 11 and 12 year olds would be like--look like, sound like, love like. They wonder, because when these children were 6 and 7, they were murdered by gunfire while they went to school on a day not far from Christmas. They wonder, because wonder is what they have left.
Sandy Hook Elementary became a first grade killing field that day; and after 5 years, the mass slaughter is remarkable, aside from the tender age of most of its victims, mostly for its unremarkable-ness.
When will the voice of reason, the voice of standing up for the fallen, become louder than the voice of impersonal, obscenely deep-pocketed lobbying efforts? How long till lone voices become a chorus for change?
A voice is heard in Ramah, lament and bitter weeping, Rachel weeping for her children; she finds no comfort, for they are no more.-Jeremiah.31:15/para.laca.
Showing posts with label Newtown. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Newtown. Show all posts
Thursday, December 14, 2017
Tuesday, December 16, 2014
...not one more December tragedy
Lully, lullay, thou little tiny Child,
By, by, lully, lullay:
Lullay, thou little tiny Child,
By by, lully, lullay.
---Robert Croo, 16th cent.
The bleak midwinter reveals a rock-hard core once again. At its base--- under the sleigh bells. and snowflakes, and merriment ---it seems, lie loss and mourning. Buried in the Christmas story in Matthew is the violent subplot of King Herod's slaughter of the innocents in Bethlehem. In his burning jealously over guarding his throne against usurpers, Herod sent his soldiers out to murder all the boys in Bethlehem whose births fit the Magis' calculations. In The Coventry Carol, featured in a 1534 pageant on the birth of Christ, mothers were shown rocking their babes, singing one last lullaby as Herod's army approached.
The grief of a mother over the loss of a child is, perhaps, our true picture of grief. Think of Michaelangelo's Pieta, with a diminutive Mary cradling her full-grown, newly-crucified son in her arms. Think of Jeremiah's prophecy, quoted in Matthew's gospel:
"A voice is heard in Ramah,
lamentation and bitter weeping.
Rachel is weeping for her children;
she refuses to be comforted for her children,
because they are no more."
It seems we would have learned, through the years, the centuries, to quit killing our children, to quit breaking our mothers' hearts. But we continue to observe our December tragedies, to see bleak midwinter run bleaker still at the point of a sword, the trigger of an assault rifle, the detonator of an IED. Terror looks like Herod's soldiers in Bethlehem, like Adam Lanza and a Bushmaster in Newtown, like the Pakistan Taliban in Peshawar.
If we've got a hope in this world, it is that, when God came to us, it was as one of us, flesh to flesh. As if to say, "Your lives can be holy, and the way you live in this world can be holy. Watch me."
Because we can. Not one more December tragedy.
By, by, lully, lullay:
Lullay, thou little tiny Child,
By by, lully, lullay.
---Robert Croo, 16th cent.
The bleak midwinter reveals a rock-hard core once again. At its base--- under the sleigh bells. and snowflakes, and merriment ---it seems, lie loss and mourning. Buried in the Christmas story in Matthew is the violent subplot of King Herod's slaughter of the innocents in Bethlehem. In his burning jealously over guarding his throne against usurpers, Herod sent his soldiers out to murder all the boys in Bethlehem whose births fit the Magis' calculations. In The Coventry Carol, featured in a 1534 pageant on the birth of Christ, mothers were shown rocking their babes, singing one last lullaby as Herod's army approached.
The grief of a mother over the loss of a child is, perhaps, our true picture of grief. Think of Michaelangelo's Pieta, with a diminutive Mary cradling her full-grown, newly-crucified son in her arms. Think of Jeremiah's prophecy, quoted in Matthew's gospel:
"A voice is heard in Ramah,
lamentation and bitter weeping.
Rachel is weeping for her children;
she refuses to be comforted for her children,
because they are no more."
It seems we would have learned, through the years, the centuries, to quit killing our children, to quit breaking our mothers' hearts. But we continue to observe our December tragedies, to see bleak midwinter run bleaker still at the point of a sword, the trigger of an assault rifle, the detonator of an IED. Terror looks like Herod's soldiers in Bethlehem, like Adam Lanza and a Bushmaster in Newtown, like the Pakistan Taliban in Peshawar.
If we've got a hope in this world, it is that, when God came to us, it was as one of us, flesh to flesh. As if to say, "Your lives can be holy, and the way you live in this world can be holy. Watch me."
Because we can. Not one more December tragedy.
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