I remember when Alan Jackson released his song, “Where Were You (When the World Stopped Turning) just months after the horrific attack on our nation in 2001. It was a question that every person could answer. I am sure, even as you read this, you remember where you were on September 11, 2001. I recall the youth sporting event I attended just weeks later, and the emotional response I had to the National Anthem. I lived in California in 2001, as far across the country as you could get from New York City. And yet, I was no longer a Californian any more than New Yorkers were New Yorkers. We all became Americans, and we were unified in that. I will always remember that moment, because for that moment and the moments that we shared after, something changed, and in those moments, little else mattered.
In the Fall of 2010, I took my young children to a pumpkin patch in Wheatland, CA. There was a carousel and a train, several slides and a few other attractions. I watched my 2 and a half year old son walk up the stairs and into the back of a barn-like structure. There was a slide out front that he would eventually come out of, so after I was sure he was inside, I walked around the front of the barn with his eighteen month old sister to wait for him to come down. Except he never came. I assumed he had gotten scared, so I went around back and maneuvered up the stairs and made my way past the excited children into the barn. But my son wasn’t there either. Sure that he had come down while I was climbing up, I hurried back down and out the back of the barn. I scanned the slide, the nearby picnic tables, and the immediate area, but there was no sign of my little boy. And then, panic set in. In that moment, little else mattered. I didn’t care if people thought I was a lunatic as I ran from structure to structure, calling his name. I didn’t notice whether people were judging my parenting or joining the search. There could have been an earthquake shaking the ground, and I doubt I would have felt a thing.
I have no clue how long my boy was missing, because it felt like an eternity to my momma heart. The awful scenarios that ran though my head, and the momentary dread of having to explain to my husband that I had lost our child enveloped me, and time moved slower the the wrong check-out line at the grocery store. If I had to guess, it was probably only two or three minutes later when I recognized his blue flanel shirt one story above me. He was at a different slide about twenty feet away from the barn. All smiles, he waved to me. And the breath that I had been holding slowly slipped out of my pursed lips. My sweet, blue-eyed boy was just fine. When his feet hit the dirt, I scooped him up and held him close to me.
It that moment, I truly appreciated his presence. I was grateful to feel his little heart beat next to mine, and to feel his head nestle in my neck. Ten minutes before, I loved him as much as every mother loves their boy. I doted on him, I held him, I had rocked him to sleep, but never with the realization of just how precious and delicate his life was.
A month before my 20th birthday, I lost a childhood friend. She was one of my first friends in a new state when I was nine, and she and I clicked from day one. She was silly in a way I had never felt the freedom to be. Somehow her presence gave me permission to act like a kid, something I had rarely done at nine years old. Janae was kind, gentle, and she gave of herself, never expecting anything in return. She was a unique and lovely young woman. The last time I saw her is forever etched in my mind. She was sitting at a desk in my aunts house. She had recounted to me some medical problems she had been having, and how frustrated she felt with the health care system. I don’t recall my response, but I will always regret not pulling up a chair to offer assistance. I have always had a knack for navigating systems, and advocating in a way that demanded results. I wish the last moment I saw my friend was more than a fleeting moment. A few months after our last encounter, I was standing in my kitchen on my first wedding anniversary in a pink satin night gown. I picked the ringing phone up off the wall, and the world stopped turning. My anniversary plans were forgotten. The dishes in the sink no longer seemed important. All that mattered was that my friend was gone, and the only person I wanted to be near was her mom.
Moments like this have a permanent, illuminated file in the cabinet of my brain. Moments like these changed me. They changed me just long enough for complacency to return, for life to become busy, and for me to forget just how precious and delicate life is. Until another moment arrives and the light is turned on every one of those files all at once, reminding me I have become comfortable, again.
I know I am not alone. I know that this is a fact of life and a part of the human condition. But I wonder how many people consider if the awful thing in front of them is somehow a result of their action, or inaction. Or if they are being punished because of some transgression.
“Everyone knows they’re going to die, but nobody believes it. If we did, we would do things differently.”
Mitch Albom, Tuesdays with Morrie
It is not the years I remember in the catalog of my brain, but the moments. Throughout my childhood and teen years, there were many moments. The moment a jury decided my mother’s fate, or the moment my older sister told me joined the army, or my little brother jumping in the pool not knowing how to swim. There were moments of shame I wish I could reclaim, moments of grief too difficult to bear, and moments of silence that I wish had made me cry out.
Therefore will not we fear, though the earth be removed, and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea; Psalm 46:2
When I read that scripture, I am reminded of the 1970’s film, “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.” Remember when Veruca Salt climbed up onto the “eggdicator” and then the arrow pointed to bad egg? The door below her opened and what she thought was the solid foundation below her gave way. Down she went to the garbage chute.
I imagine standing on solid dirt, and then the earth below me giving way. I am certain that I would scream, panic, try to run, and I would definitely be afraid. I am afraid of everything. I am afraid of the moments.
Just this afternoon, a minister told me that when you see the word therefore in scripture, you have to investigate to see what that word is there for. It is a cute play on words. But tonight, after having the proverbial rug swept out from under me; in what Noah Elias calls ‘the afters’, I wanted to know the antidote to fear in the event that the earth gives way.
[[To the chief Musician for the sons of Korah, A Song upon Alamoth.]] God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Psalm 46:1
At first glance, this is obvious. In the moments, God will be present, and he will help. But then I notice the words in brackets before the Psalm begins, and wonder who the sons of Korah were. This led me to read Numbers chapter 16 about the rebellion Korah led against Moses in the wilderness, and how God actually opened the earth beneath Korah and the men he had gathered together. Then Numbers 26 where scripture confirmed that the sons of Korah “died not”. And all of a sudden this Psalm that reminded me of a fictional event from an old movie has a whole new meaning. These sons of Korah, generations later had become musicians, servants and played vital roles in the temple of God. Although their father was swallowed up, God allowed them to remain, to be used. Surely these sons had heard of great grandpa’s rebellion, and how when the earth had given way and consumed him, God protected the children of Korah.
Tonight, I am thankful to know this God. The God who is present, who protects and defends me, who will hear my cry should the earth give way. This God who granted me mercy while others were swallowed up, who offered me a place to serve in his house, and who offered me a seat at His table.
Knowing God does not exempt me from moments, but my relationship with him offers me peace in the midst of chaos. And then that relationship nourishes me and heals the wounds left by the moments.
Tonight, the moment has passed and all is well. But I will add this file, and illiluminate it in an effort to stave off complacency as long as I can.
Uncommonly Common Mom 