When Memories are Hard

Eighteen years ago, I woke up before the rest of my family and grabbed my coffee and settled into a comfortable chair to watch the morning news. They were broadcasting pictures of one of the twin towers burning. I was sad and overwhelmed at the thought of a fire that could impact so many people. Then all of a sudden an airplane came into view and hit the second tower and I knew that what I was viewing was not an accident. I ran toward the bedroom calling my husband to come because something was terribly wrong. Soon after that the pentagon was hit and another plane went down in a field. As I drove our son to high school that morning I told him repeatedly he didn't have to go and he repeatedly told me he was wanted to go. And, I drove home wondering if I did the right thing leaving him there.

As I think about that day now, pictures pop into my mind--pictures I wish I could forget, but can't. Pictures of people fleeing the area on foot totally covered in dust and debris, their faces full of shock, terror, and confusion. Pictures of people jumping from the windows of fractured buildings, falling to their death. Pictures of first responders rushing in, risking their own lives in an attempt to save others. Pictures of the Pentagon with a great big gapping hole in its side. Pictures of a field burning where a plane was heroically forced down by citizens who refused to let the terrorists hit their intended target. Pictures of people being interviewed, with tears streaming as they described the last conversation they had with loved ones trapped in hijacked planes and crumbling buildings. And, pictures of people overseas chanting of their hatred of America and its people, realizing God had called me to love my enemies and in the face of such strong hatred I no longer knew what that looked like.

As I think back on that day, I also remember what it felt like to be a mom whose son's marine reserve unit was activated and sent to war to fight the enemy that was different than the enemies the USA has fought before. I watched as he and his pregnant wife hugged tight. Then I watched as he and his dad hugged and patted each other on the back, mumbling words I couldn't hear. Then I took my turn, trying to portray a courage I certainly didn't feel for my son's sake. I can still see him in my mind's eye, climbing the bus's steps along with the other young men in his unit. I remember waving until they were out of sight, trying to get one last glimpse of his face. I remember us slowly walking back to our car and the silence that filled the car as we rode home, each of us lost in our own thoughts and fears doing the hard work of holding ourselves together.

At the time I thought the hard was the goodbyes we said at the armory, but I was so wrong. The hard was the waking up morning after morning, not knowing if our first born was safe or in harms way, if he was dead or alive, or if he was lying injured on that desert sand with no one to help. No one told me what to do with the hurting mom's heart that daily wondered what his heart was feeling. We made it through and got to see our son climb down the bus steps into waiting arms, fully aware that many others didn't, And, it hurts my heart to this day to think about the spouses, the parents, and the kids who bravely watched soldiers leave, who got the dreaded call, telling them they were being robbed of the opportunity to ever see their loved ones come home.

Eighteen years later and these memories are still vivid and they are still hard. But along with these hard memories come memories of the intimacy I felt with God as I learned to pour my heart out to Him. At that time, I walked every morning and as I walked I prayed. The prayers I prayed weren't just everyday prayers, they were fervent prayers. I remember telling God daily about the great big fear I was feeling, asking Him to give me the courage just to face the day no matter what was in the news and what the day might hold for us. I remember telling the Lord about the hurt I was experiencing when the news showed the faces of those who hated us and asked Him to help me learn how to love the people those images represented. I told Him how I longed to see our son again and to have the opportunity to see him hold the little baby his wife was carrying in her womb. I asked the Lord to empower our son to be the kind of light he had been in his high school.

As my walks came to an end each morning, I found myself able to praise Him for the peace He was pouring into my heart daily. I praised Him for who He was and what He was doing in me, my family, and our country during that time. I thanked him for the kindnesses other nations were showing us after the attacks our nation had endured and for the extra love and care we, as a people, seemed to be showing one another.

I realize now it was during that time I began to really grasp what was meant by casting our cares on Jesus who cares for us. Up until then I had interpreted 1 Peter 5:7 to mean I was sinning when I experienced anxious feelings. So, I often pretended everything was okay when it wasn't. I had pretended I wasn't concerned about things a mom should be concerned about--things like the severe asthma that plagued our youngest, the bully in our neighborhood that did all he could to hurt my kids, the ugly obscene phone calls that came regularly to my daughter and me, sometimes in the middle of the night and sometimes every hour on the hour. I started out trying to handle the events concerning the towers the same way. I tried to pretend I wasn't concerned that my son was on the front lines of a war.  I tried to pretend the attack on our country didn't hurt my heart and instill a fear in me I had never experienced before. And before long I just reached a point I couldn't pretend any more. I could no longer portray myself as something I wasn't just because someone might disapprove and might tell me I was sinning because of the anxiety I felt.

That was when I became brutally honest with my Jesus about my fears and my feelings. I fully expected God to scold me and walk away from this hot mess that I was. But, God didn't! Instead, He met me on my walks in my brutally honest cries, and strengthened my heart to face each and every day as it came. And when the news showed nations ranting their hatred, I could rest in the fact that I was deeply loved by a Savior who had sacrificed His own life for me and I found the strength to pray for the hearts of those chanting to be turned towards God. In my raw honesty, I found my worship to be more pure and heartfelt. And, it was in that honest crying out, that I also began to see the bigness and the holiness of God more clearly than I ever had before.

I came through that time realizing that sometimes believers have the tendency to shame by hurling verses taken out of context at those living in anxious moments. Maybe our God would have us sit with them in the hard instead, gently helping them that God has His ears turned towards them, longing to hear their voices humbly crying out to Him so He can comfort and  strengthen them and provide the peace they need to survive the hard He has called them to live.

When memories are hard, I find them more bearable when I remember the memories carry with them reminders of the beautiful lessons learned about our great God and how compassionately He relates to His people as they walk moment-by-moment with Him through the hard they faced.