We've been discussing pain and appropriate Christian responses to it below. Please go there and add your two cents if you have two cents to spare. I just wanted to relate an experience that I had today.
On her blog this morning April DeConick referred to a trial down in Texas surrounding the beating death of a little girl named Grace (for some reason Dr. DeConick has removed that particular post, but please follow the link to her excellent blog anyway). I won't relate the details simply because they are too horrible to type out. She was killed by her own parents in the most vicious act of child abuse I've ever heard of, that's all I'll say. When I read about the crime I was horror-struck, and I was unspeakably angry. I wanted to write horrible things about those parents in the comments section of Dr. DeConick's post, and on my blog, and on this blog, and on every other public forum that I could find. Then I wanted to speak to every person that I know and say more horrible things. Then I looked at my little boy who was, as usual, running around between our living room and his bedroom being loud and silly. Instead of saying horrible things about horror I did these things instead:
I made my son spaghetti with meat sauce (aka loodles!!! [noodles] in his parlance). While the loodles cooked I watched little Liam take my steel mixing bowls off of their rack, set them some four feet away on the kitchen floor, then pick them up one by one and return them to the rack only to then move them from the rack to the floor again. He did that for around ten minutes. He was very content. Then he ate his loodles while I cleaned up the kitchen. As always he made a horrible mess and fed the dog almost as much as himself. Then we played in the living room. I was daddy-monster and chased him, then he was Liam-monster and he chased me and knocked me down and climbed on me screaming and giggling. Then we snuggled and watched the Mole Sisters on Treehouse. Then we changed his diaper and we snuggled a little more and he laid down for a nice, quiet nap.
I did those things for my son because I love him. I also did those things for my son because they are the things that were not done for that poor little girl named Grace. I can't help that little girl. I want very badly to help her, but I can't. But I can love my little boy. I can care for him and be responsible for him and be his father.
I can't quite explain why, but that responsibility seems even more important to me in light of poor Grace's death. I suppose the more horror I see pushed out into the world, the more I want to let out love to push back. That, in my mind, seems like the Christlike thing to do.
On her blog this morning April DeConick referred to a trial down in Texas surrounding the beating death of a little girl named Grace (for some reason Dr. DeConick has removed that particular post, but please follow the link to her excellent blog anyway). I won't relate the details simply because they are too horrible to type out. She was killed by her own parents in the most vicious act of child abuse I've ever heard of, that's all I'll say. When I read about the crime I was horror-struck, and I was unspeakably angry. I wanted to write horrible things about those parents in the comments section of Dr. DeConick's post, and on my blog, and on this blog, and on every other public forum that I could find. Then I wanted to speak to every person that I know and say more horrible things. Then I looked at my little boy who was, as usual, running around between our living room and his bedroom being loud and silly. Instead of saying horrible things about horror I did these things instead:
I made my son spaghetti with meat sauce (aka loodles!!! [noodles] in his parlance). While the loodles cooked I watched little Liam take my steel mixing bowls off of their rack, set them some four feet away on the kitchen floor, then pick them up one by one and return them to the rack only to then move them from the rack to the floor again. He did that for around ten minutes. He was very content. Then he ate his loodles while I cleaned up the kitchen. As always he made a horrible mess and fed the dog almost as much as himself. Then we played in the living room. I was daddy-monster and chased him, then he was Liam-monster and he chased me and knocked me down and climbed on me screaming and giggling. Then we snuggled and watched the Mole Sisters on Treehouse. Then we changed his diaper and we snuggled a little more and he laid down for a nice, quiet nap.
I did those things for my son because I love him. I also did those things for my son because they are the things that were not done for that poor little girl named Grace. I can't help that little girl. I want very badly to help her, but I can't. But I can love my little boy. I can care for him and be responsible for him and be his father.
I can't quite explain why, but that responsibility seems even more important to me in light of poor Grace's death. I suppose the more horror I see pushed out into the world, the more I want to let out love to push back. That, in my mind, seems like the Christlike thing to do.
2 comments:
amen and amen.
oho nice blog...
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