Shaken

I was going to post something else tonight. It was called "Resilience." I've been trying to get it right all week. Well, I feel a little like throwing it in the proverbial trash can tonight. I spent my afternoon checking Facebook, looking for posts that assured me the people I knew were home safe, having escaped tragedy in Boston. They were. I am so grateful.

I thought I whispered it to Mark when the news entered our cozy little house. I thought I looked around the yard for signs of children near when I told him, "Two bombs went off at the Marathon today."

"What?" He looked confused.

"Yes. It's true. It happened. It's all over the news. Who do we know who was there?" We started listing. All afternoon. Another name would pop into one of our heads. So-and-so went. So-and-so was running, volunteering, watching. It could have been us. It could have been our family. But we chose a different activity for the day--one involving fewer crowds and less traffic. And sure as anything there were families there like ours, enjoying the breezy spring day, witnessing the triumphs of 26.2. And oh the stories that we share this time of year. Team 21 runs to raise awareness and funds for Ds. A mom running with her handicapped daughter. A niece running to raise funds for a mission in Kenya that is near and dear to her aunt and uncle's heart. A college student enjoying the thrill of accomplishment. There are so many stories. And the way evil can just enter into all that joy and hope. The way it inserts itself--well, it just plain shook us up today.

A small girl asks what happens when a bomb explodes, because she was near. She was very near when I whispered the words to Mark. And I don't want to tell her again the way people can steal from one another the very lives they've been given. 

After the kids went to bed, Mark and I sat glued to the television. The images were confusing, because these are the places we love to visit. "Look, there's the library. That's the hotel. That's the spot where..." And the images are turned to a war zone less than an hour from our doorstep.

"Where is God," I asked Mark "in the godless space of evil. Is he overhead weeping? Is he down on the ground next to those people, bleeding and vacant?"

And we talked about how these kinds of things have happened since humanity's exit from the garden. There is nothing new under the sun, and yet, in this age of worrying about where we'll take the family on vacation and rising gas prices and wars that take place on the other side of the world, events like these shake us to our core.  They test our faith and upend our sense of security and force us to share evil's existence with our children before we thought we'd have to.

On Sunday, our pastor preached on Abraham's testing. God asks him to kill his own son, his flesh and blood.  "Take your son, your only son, the son whom you love, Issac..." And we often shrink at that tale, not wanting to believe God would request such an atrocity of his beloved.  It's one of those stories unbelievers or former believers often cite when arguing against a Bible that teaches a just and loving God.  "What kind of God?" Yes, indeed. "What kind of God?'

And while I do not know the answer to that question entirely, my faith does stick. For reasons I can't quite explain.  For in that moment of utter despair, God calls out Abraham's name. "Abraham, Abraham. Stop!" And he provides a way out, an alternative. He names them both--Issac and Abraham. Son and Father. The father who loves enough to sacrifice his only son, the son whom he loves.  The story, it's really a mirror.  The Father who gave up his Son out of Love--someday God would find himself before the same altar, sacrificing a son in the name of Love.

Our pastor tells us (and you could have heard a pin drop) that God names us, claims us, despite our sin, despite our failings.  He calls us by name, and in that naming we know him.  Who am I Lord that you should call me by name? That question is asked over and over in the Bible. In the darkest pits, he calls us by name. In the deepest despair, he calls us by name. He names us and we know him. Jesus raised from the dead returns to his disciples and they do not recognize him. Not, at least, until he calls out their names.

Mary Magdalene meets Jesus on the road and weeps to tell the stranger all she has witnessed.

And the stranger speaks. "Mary."

"My Lord and my God," she replies for in that moment she knows who calls her by name.

"Thomas." And Thomas does touch the wounds thick with scar tissue, now healed.

"Peter."

"What shall I do, Lord?" asks Peter.

I can only pray that in those moments this afternoon where our seemingly secure world was again turned on its head that the God of Abraham, Issac, and Jacob and the God of Mary, Thomas, and Peter called each one by name and they knew him in that moment, there where he was, on the dirty, blood soaked ground.

I hope. I hope.

Climbing stairs to bed tonight, I lean over to kiss brown-haired girl, and I say to her, "Someday, when I get to heaven, I have some questions for God."

"How will you remember what they are?" she asks.

"I don't know. Good question," I smile. "But I think I will know the answers before I even have to ask. I think God sees what he created differently than we see it. I think he is wise. And I think he knows that we are confused, that we hurt. And I think he understands. And some day, when I get to heaven, I'll see it all the way he does. And it will make sense, I hope."

"Can I read a story, Mom?" I suppose that answer is good enough for now. We tuck into bed and read snuggled close. And I pray silently even as I pray out loud, "Lord, they are yours. Let them know you, and thank you for your protection. Just for today."

I am not settled. I would like better answers. But just for today, I can trust.