In the Muggy Nights after a Month of Headlines

I remember it, how the air was hot even though it was September 2007 and how Mark had crossed the stage, his shoulders carrying the pain.

Photo Credit: Flickr user Mick Baker Rooster, Creative Commons, cc license

Photo Credit: Flickr user David, Creative Commons, cc license

His voice softer than normal, he had smiled at the forty or fifty students in the darkened worship sanctuary and said, "Well, we had planned to tell you exciting news tonight--"

Several junior high girls squealed in excitement, missing the qualifier.

"-- about being pregnant, but Jen and I miscarried yesterday. We're sad and grieving but we know that God is still good."

The teens had gasped, sighed, and moved instantly to crowd around us. Not trusting my voice, I had simply nodded and bit back tears. The students and youth leaders engulfed us, putting hot hands on our shoulders, backs, arms, and heads.

Their words spilled out on a sticky muggy September night, and my sadness spilled down and over. They spoke words of grief aloud to us, and to our God, and they hugged us tight.

Today, in this week of muggy days where sadness leaks out for so many names, that image flashes back to me. Because the most comforting thing about that night in 2007 was how they came alongside to simply cry with us and to honor that little one's life.

In our world with so much violence and grieving and death today, can we just come alongside in the muggy nights to say: we cry with you. We ache with you.

Your loved ones' names matter. Their lives mattered. 

We ache and grieve with you. We moan in surprise and pain at each new headline, and we say your names from Florida, Iraq, Saudi Arabia,  Louisiana, Minnesota,  Texas, Syria, and more.

Your names matter. Your lives mattered, and we ache with you and sit in respectful crying sadness with you in the dark muggy nights.


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Suburbia & Shootings

“Smell! Do you smell that?” 

We were standing at the open deck door, our toes hanging over the white edge. He sniffed fiercely, his tiny shoulders rising with the effort.  

“Rain! Doesn’t it smell good?” 

The wind blew droplets into our faces and we inhaled the moist earthy scent of rain. Hints of hot wet asphalt mixed with the fresh promise of clean. When water started puddling onto our dining room floor, I grinned and closed the door for a while. An evening of rain soaked the silent suburban streets. 

This morning I drink coffee soberly and ponder street-side shootings. A new friend of mine mourns her twenty-six year old step-daughter at a funeral right now. 

I met my friend three weeks ago at a wooded women’s retreat. Seven women from the inner-city joined seven or eight of us from the suburbs. Together we shared stories and photos of our children. We talked about our marriages, opening wide, being accountable, and looking into God’s word for guidance. We prayed, sang, laughed and ate together. In a large screened-in cabin, we swatted bugs, peeked over bunk beds to hear each other, and laughed at late-night tirades. 

My friend spoke of her upcoming wedding at the end of this month, and paged through wedding magazines. Her daughters were to be part of the ceremony. 

This last week, though, an armed assailant walked into their home, shot her daughter, and left. No one knows why or whom. Neighborhood vigils, grief-stricken parents, and news anchor bits culminate in today’s funeral. 

I’m too new and didn’t have all the information right away so I’m here at home, praying for her, aching with her, and feeling uncomfortably quiet in my safe suburban home. 

I traced down her phone number, and corrected the wrong email address I had for her. Soon, I hope to go and sit with her, hugging her, and aching quietly beside her. 

Will you join me in praying for my friend Christina? Thanks. How can I pray for you this week? 

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