"I'm running the wrong way."

If you happen to be reading this and you don't live in the area, earlier this week some asshat in a trenchcoat walked into a lecture hall at NIU and started shooting, leaving several dead and eventually killing himself. Now, DeKalb is only a half hour away from here so everyone has some kind of connection to the University. Everybody knows someone who was there, or should have been there, or a friend's friend who saw the whole thing, or whatever. But I've got to tell you, I don't mean to be cruel, but I just can't wrap my mind around that kind of situation. The blatantly senseless violence. The emotional wreckage. The lack of clear motive. Even though it happened 30 minutes away, when I hear first hand reports, I still kind of glaze over. There's nothing to say, there's nothing to do. I can't relate to this on any level, nor would I attempt to cheapen the experience by acting like it.

So as folks around here have been talking things out, I've just kind of been, well, letting them talk it out. I try to actively listen, but for the most part I just sit there zoned out. I've been emotionally distant throughout the whole ordeal, but that's not my personality and I know it. So I've been waiting for something to sink in. Something to click. Something to push me out of shock and onto the next phase of healing and understanding.

This morning in the chiropractor's office, I found it. I was sitting in the reception area sifting through the Rockford paper, noting how the local media was handling this whole thing. Students shocked... police acted... parents relieved... school responded... No offense, but you could pretty much write these stories beforehand and just fill in the names and numbers after it actually happened. As I drifted over the headline "As Students Fled Danger, Medic Ran to Give Help" I slowed down to indulge in a 'Hero story' no doubt about some emergency responder who jumped out of an ambulance and acted supernaturally. But I was wrong.

Ok... just to give you some background info, I am a total chump for heroics. I went to a conference once where one of the speakers read clips out of some "Winners of the Congressional Medal of Honor" book for about 15 minutes out of his 20 minute lecture. It was absolutely riveting. I was completely absorbed by all the selfless and monumentally stupid things men do for God and Country. It really only takes one story about a guy charging a machinegun nest to bring me to tears anyway, Band of Brothers made sure of that.

So I start reading this article, and I get to the part about how Jeff Merkel, a Navy medic who is now at NIU on the GI Bill, called his wife and I quote;

“I told her, ‘I’m running the wrong way,’ but I had to,” he said. “I know how to do things. I’ve seen this kind of violence.”

And I lost it. Yes Jeff. If your gut reaction was to run toward an unknown threat to assess damages and help victims, the fact that you "Know how to do things" is a ridiculous understatement. I sit here wondering if I would have even had the presence of mind to duck and crawl out of the auditorium, let alone help anyone. I can't relate to this kind of heroism any more than I can relate to the tragedy or the insanity that brought it about, but it touched me when the other two hadn't. And "running the wrong way" has such tremendous spiritual implications I could write a series of blogs on that phrase alone.

So I'm sitting there unsuccessfully trying not to cry and needless to say, that is when I get called into the chiropractor's office. Fantastic. My doc walks in perusing my chart and says, "Hey Karaoke King, How are you doing today?" And I'm like, "JUST FINE! WHY? I mean **wipe-wipe** I'm fine. Well, my back doesn't hurt. **sniff** How are you? Say, are those my X-rays?"
"I'm good," He responded, "Why don't you lie down and let me take a look at your back."

Good Chiropractors know where to push, great ones know where not to.

All Saints Day

In my church's tradition, the first Sunday of November is All Saints Day. It's a time of reflection and remembrance for those who have died in the past year. Candles are lit and a powerpoint is shown as we're reminded to celebrate their earthly and eternal lives. I've always found it to be kind of a weird juxtaposition with modern day Halloween, but I suspect at one point it there was a more natural transition between the two holidays. Now, after a month of sugar and hype, I am challenged with trying to find joy in death. Real death, not movie death or funny or ironic death. Not the Halloween, costumed, candy-coated death. And it's difficult.

This year brought it's own unique frustration. About 20 people from my church died in the past year, and I didn't know any of them. I only even recognized one last name, but didn't recognize her face. Does that make this a good year? Am I lucky or am I a big jerk for not being involved enough? So while I'm stewing over that, my brain starts listing Christian death hymns. Amazing Grace. I've always been drawn to them. Partly because of my inner-goth-child, but also I think Bono (love him or hate him) summed up my feelings on the matter. Take My Hand, Precious Lord. He said that Christians generally don't like conflict, especially in their music, and yet most of the great songs revolve around some conflict. All My Tears Be Washed Away. You can't have a good song or story without a problem. I'll Fly Away. Throwing death in the mix inherently adds conflict.

And then the chorus of O Come and Mourn with Me Awhile poured into my head:

Oh love of God, Oh sin of man, in this dread act Your strength is tried.
And victory remains in Love. Jesus our Lord is crucified.

Talk about a rollercoaster. Love... sin... dread act...victory... crucified. From the chorus it's kinda hard to tell who's really winning. Sure, It's really a Good Friday/Easter hymn but I was struck by the parallel, though I couldn't verbalize it at the time. In six months I'll go through this again in reverse. Life to death, death to life. Celebration to mourning, mourning to celebration.

At this point, Chris looked over at me in the pew and whispered, "Do you need a Kleenex?" Needless to say, I'm all like, "No, I can handle it." Later in the car I fessed up that apparently I'm dealing with some stuff that's bubbling through to the surface. "It's ok, deal with it as it comes. At least you're feeling something," she said. And she's right... again.

My little Pestilence...

If you're a reader of Chris's blog, you're probably familiar with the 4 kittens we 'acquired' (read: found in our backyard) early this spring. The Kittens of the Apocalypse, (that would be Famine, Pestilence, War and Death,) have become a constant source of reward and frustration. As much as we enjoy the little fleabags, taking care of them comes with some sacrifice. For one, our backyard has become a big green, private litterbox, which isn't surprising given how much they eat. Also, I noticed that we don't have any birds this year, go figure. But lastly, Chris and I have done our best to stay emotionally distant from these strays. We know we can't take them in, and yet we also know that they won't make it through the winter without our help. So for the past 4 months we've gone back and forth about how much we were going to take care of these cats. To feed or not to feed? Do we get them neutered so we don't have 800 cats next year? What are we going to do in the winter?

So last Sunday, Chris and I get in the car to head to church and find that Pestilence had been hit by a car the night before. Let me just preface this with the fact that I had absolutely no intention of getting attached to this cat. It's an outdoor cat. Outdoor cats starve, freeze, or get hit by cars. Logically I know this, and I've seen her dart in front of my car in the driveway. I have even given myself the, "We'll take care of these cats as long as we can..." speech several times. But here's what makes Pestilences death so frustrating... of the 4 kittens, she was the one that we had nurtured the most. Over the summer months she went from staying 3 yards away to walking over my feet to get to the food. During her brief stay in our basement after being spade, she'd nuzzle and let us pet her. Oh, and we haven't even gotten that Visa bill yet either. Sigh... Twist that tiny dagger...

So this is the part where I learned more about myself than I want. I don't know where I thought death-coping skills came from, but I was reminded that I don't have any. I am apparently a sensitive sentimental dope who grieves uncontrollably for feral animals. So I buried this cat, in hopes of some form of closure and that maybe it'll be easier next time around.

I find it interesting to see how people react when you tell them that you're grieving, probably because I'm really self-conscious about how I react to other people's tragedies. One of my cat-hating friends gave me a genuine, "That sux, I'm sorry" which I appreciate on many levels. He could have joked or laughed. He didn't, that was a gift. I think one of my other friends, who also recently lost an outdoor cat, summed it up as, "No more cats for us, too much heartbreak."

Indeed.


(Really when else would I get to use this picture?)

So, in case you're wondering, we're batting a thousand on ironic names. War is the friendliest, Death is still alive, Famine is always the first to the food dish, and Pestilence never got sick.