Tragedy Strikes Again

Disbelief. Evil. Senseless. Rage. Pain. Anguish. Heartache.  Sorrow.

Grief. Compassion. Empathy. Prayer. Supplication.

            These are a few of the words that describe my thoughts and emotions as I sat in front of the television watching and listening to the horrific events in Newtown, CT.  I know this same wave of emotions swept the nation.  Even today, it seems like a nightmare and yet it is the stark and abysmal reality of what our nation has collectively undergone.  If we, in our distant homes, feel the pain and helplessness, imagine what the parents and families of those massacred are feeling and will continue to experience for a long, long time.  I can only pray that their hearts be consoled in whatever way is meaningful to them and that they have the strength to go forward through the dark valley they are now treading until the day comes when they can regain some sense and direction in their lives.  It will never be the same, but they will be able to go on.

            This inconceivable catastrophe brought a poem to mind that I shared many times with my literature students.  It is by Mary Connell and was published in her poetry book titled Help Is On The Way (1986).  I ask that you allow these words to penetrate your hearts; hold on to them in a meaningful way, especially the last two stanzas.

            Final Sightings

            That which commences must end, alas.

            It is implicit in the first time that there should be a final one.

            Maybe it will come to a close spectacularly

            on some Tuesday afternoon in a country like Norway,

            where everyone is wearing furs except yourself

            and the street lights are burning all day long.

            And perhaps it will last happen on an ordinary Saturday morning

 at home,

            while the percolator is muttering to itself

            and the Dallas Times Herald is lying in the rose bushes,

            its secrets guarded by thorns.

            But if it is of human origin, it will sometime stop.

            It will eventually happen for the last time,

            And likely no one will know when it happened

            that it stopped happening.

            A mother may someday remember that her son who is in the third grade

            used to sit on her lap, and does so no more.

            But she will not remember which time was the last time,

            This is probably merciful. It would not do, I think,

            for her to know he was seeking that comfort finally.

            She might tend not to release him – to hold him until

            he squirmed and kicked and screamed,

            breaking the Satsuma table lamp and bringing the neighbors

gasping in.

            So it is with every sweet occurrence

            That lends any sense or comfort to our lives.

            The ultimate gaze, the final phrase, is pretty hard to recognize.

            So kiss me every time you go, against returning so obscure.

            For, even though I think I know a certain thing, I can’t be sure.

            And joy of such dimensions makes a wise man insecure.