Dear Spike:
I stood outside the Trolley Square mall, early Tuesday morning, watching men lift body after body into the back of a truck.
Someone’s father. Another’s son. A girlfriend. A brother. A daughter.
They were slaughtered in a random act of murder by a gunman who, witnesses say, seemed dispassionate about their deaths.
Last year, in Iraq, I watched soldiers pick the pieces of young man’s body from the dirt at a base in Ramadi, where he fell victim to a rocket attack. A few days later, I stood before the empty boots and inverted rifle of another soldier, killed in a roadside bombing.
They died in calculated acts of aggression by guerilla fighters who, rebel leaders say, are called by God to kill.
Two years ago, on a long and lonely highway a few miles from here, I stood on the side of the road and watched as police officers tried to locate the bodies of a number of teenagers who had been thrown from a madly speeding car which flipped and spun as its driver lost control.
They were killed in a simple act of teenage indiscretion.
My God, my God. I’ve been witness to some of the most terrible things this world has to offer. And it sometimes makes it difficult to rationalize the decision your mother and I made to bring you into this world.
But love is no less rational than hate. The glass is half empty. The glass is half full. Our world is brutal. Our world is beautiful.
One day, perhaps, you’ll return home from playing soccer — the beautiful game — with a skinned knee or a bruised head. You’ll cry. Maybe you’ll want to quit. “You take the bad with the good,” I’ll tell you. And you’ll make a decision about how to live your life.
One day, perhaps, you’ll come home from school after your first heart break. You’ll cry. Maybe you’ll want to never love again. “Is it better to have loved and lost,” I’ll ask, ”than never to have loved at all?” And you’ll make a decision about how to live your life.
And one day, perhaps, the world will come crashing down around you — perhaps so hard that you cannot even cry. Maybe you’ll want to quit. Maybe you’ll wonder if our world will ever be beautiful again.
And when that time comes, I will be there for you. To ask you to take another sip from a half-empty glass. To taste life. To swish it about in your mouth. To taste the bitter and the sour. To taste the sweet. To feel it cool your throat. To feel it fill your soul.
There is much hate, much violence, much chaos in this world. I’ve seen too much to pretend it isn’t true.
But as I slipped into my bedroom early Tuesday morning, I saw your mother in the bed. I reached out and touched her stomach. I pressed down, lightly, and felt for you.
My God, my God. This world is so beautiful. It would be a shame not to want to share it.
Love,
dad
I stood outside the Trolley Square mall, early Tuesday morning, watching men lift body after body into the back of a truck.
Someone’s father. Another’s son. A girlfriend. A brother. A daughter.
They were slaughtered in a random act of murder by a gunman who, witnesses say, seemed dispassionate about their deaths.
Last year, in Iraq, I watched soldiers pick the pieces of young man’s body from the dirt at a base in Ramadi, where he fell victim to a rocket attack. A few days later, I stood before the empty boots and inverted rifle of another soldier, killed in a roadside bombing.
They died in calculated acts of aggression by guerilla fighters who, rebel leaders say, are called by God to kill.
Two years ago, on a long and lonely highway a few miles from here, I stood on the side of the road and watched as police officers tried to locate the bodies of a number of teenagers who had been thrown from a madly speeding car which flipped and spun as its driver lost control.
They were killed in a simple act of teenage indiscretion.
My God, my God. I’ve been witness to some of the most terrible things this world has to offer. And it sometimes makes it difficult to rationalize the decision your mother and I made to bring you into this world.
But love is no less rational than hate. The glass is half empty. The glass is half full. Our world is brutal. Our world is beautiful.
One day, perhaps, you’ll return home from playing soccer — the beautiful game — with a skinned knee or a bruised head. You’ll cry. Maybe you’ll want to quit. “You take the bad with the good,” I’ll tell you. And you’ll make a decision about how to live your life.
One day, perhaps, you’ll come home from school after your first heart break. You’ll cry. Maybe you’ll want to never love again. “Is it better to have loved and lost,” I’ll ask, ”than never to have loved at all?” And you’ll make a decision about how to live your life.
And one day, perhaps, the world will come crashing down around you — perhaps so hard that you cannot even cry. Maybe you’ll want to quit. Maybe you’ll wonder if our world will ever be beautiful again.
And when that time comes, I will be there for you. To ask you to take another sip from a half-empty glass. To taste life. To swish it about in your mouth. To taste the bitter and the sour. To taste the sweet. To feel it cool your throat. To feel it fill your soul.
There is much hate, much violence, much chaos in this world. I’ve seen too much to pretend it isn’t true.
But as I slipped into my bedroom early Tuesday morning, I saw your mother in the bed. I reached out and touched her stomach. I pressed down, lightly, and felt for you.
My God, my God. This world is so beautiful. It would be a shame not to want to share it.
Love,
dad
1 comment:
Thanks for a beautiful blog in the midst of a very ugly event. Our prayers are with the families and community members who are trying to make sense of this very senseless act.
Grandma L.
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