I sit cross legged on the floor of my living room on July 14th, 2016. A place that has defined safety for 22 years. I no longer know how to pronounce the word safe, fear rolls off my tongue in its place. My face is lit up by an electric box broadcasting more bad news, more death, more fear. I jump at gunshots, at screaming, at innocence. I am nowhere near the horror, but I can feel it all. It becomes me. I am smaller by the moment. I barely exist in all the shrinking. I throw my hands in the air, God where are you? God do you see this happening?
The anxious, calloused voices of the reporters coughing up news of death like broken records become muffled- Over them I hear, patiently, firmly, -
"I am the faces of the broken. I am the faces of the killers. I am the faces of the fallen. I am the faces of the killed. I am in all of it.”
And suddenly instead of hearing the voices of strangers on the television, I hear His outrageous grace being flung across the nauseating scenes our world is choking on. I hear Him among the weeping. And I feel His heart crippled along with mine.
I look at this blood, I watch this horror- and I see the scene on the cross. I see Him in agony, in wreckage, in hideous ache- but I see His unavoidable hope, protruding. And because I see it in Him, in this too, I see hope. Not because my human heart can muster it up on its own. But because I see His face in the faces of the murdered, I see His face in the faces of the ones holding the gun. And in them, I see my face too.
It does not seem like enough to say that we are all crying the same salted tears. To say that we are all shivering underneath the same horrific evil. That we are all bleeding the same Mans blood- but it is. It just is. Because I do not know how to exist in this hateful world without it. Without the confidence that God is waiting outside of this for us with new, weightless life. And honestly, that is the only thing I am certain of anymore.