Gratitude and Suffering

"I looked down and saw my 2-year old daughter lying there with her insides spilling out." Khaled Abed Rabu, a resident of Gaza, as quoted by Time magazine, "Voices from The Rubble", Feb. 9, 2009

My son turned two years old this week. When I read this story, I balled out loud like a baby, heart wrenching sobs for the pain of a mother who watched all three of her innocent daughters shot, executed, by one Israeli soldier. I do not understand all the complexities of this particular war, but I do understand that the depth of human suffering is immeasurable. I do not understand what my response to this should be, could be. I have two sons myself. I cannot go to Gaza and love that woman, but I want to. I cannot sort out who is right and who is wrong, cannot decide to support the war or not. I know that some military efforts are rebuilding civilization while others are destroying and hating, exponentially increasing world violence. I cannot and will not blame the soldiers who are following orders, but neither can I entirely blame the societies backing the soldiers or the leaders. I cannot wrap by mind around all the reasons, but I can wrap my heart around the pain. 

My gratitude runs deep for the military that protects me and my family from suffering the way this woman in the Time article is suffering. It is important to me that this is clear: I am grateful for my safe spot in America. The view from my window is one of progress: homes, families, jobs, construction, yards with growing trees several generations old. The view from her window is the opposite in every literal way: dry dead dirt, rubble, destruction, loneliness. 

There is a distinct difference between tragedy and injustice. Suffering that results from normal courses in the world, hurricanes for instance, is tragic. Suffering that results from human selfishness, fear, greed and hate, 10-year-old boys tortured in Guantanamo for instance, is unjust. I have cried several more times this weekend, cried for the injustice, to share the burden of suffering. Right now, right here, my tears and prayers are all I can give that woman and those like her. Maybe someday I will remember her and show love to an immigrant or refugee who survived. In my heart's ear I can hear the silence that echos behind a single gun shot, the second of realization that life is altered. A quiet chamber in me hears the whisper of a child's last breath rending the peace. Bombs sound far off in the distance. Time and noise stretch out like a cavernous tunnel, and I cry out to God. Tommorrow, I will sing playful songs with my children and do the laundry.