On Friday Janet and I will be headed to Newtown, the town drenched with sorrow that the whole world is watching. Walnut Hill Community Church, a thriving congregation with 3500 members, has arranged two community-wide meetings, Friday and Saturday, Dec. 28-29, on the theme, “Where Is God When It Hurts?” and then two church services on Sunday. (Click on the “Events” tab for more details.) I’ve known the pastor, Clive Calver, for years. Before taking this church he headed an organization called World Relief; his experience directing a global disaster response team with 20,000 employees, he told me, barely prepares him for the local disaster he now faces in his own community. After all, he lives in Newtown and knows many of those affected by name.
I’ve had some tough assignments (Virginia Tech, Mumbai, Sarajevo), but this one is horribly unique. I would truly appreciate your prayers this week as I prepare and then New Year’s weekend as we travel to Connecticut. With her background as a hospice chaplain, Janet is a master at the conversations that will inevitably take place, and she’ll do very important work alongside.
Healing and comfort–that’s what I want most for these dear people. Words can only do so much, and certainly cannot take away the pain, yet I hope that this event could be a time of safety and honesty when people can bring their grief and come away with a new appreciation for why the gospel is good news–even now, especially now.
(This is a generous country at such times: United Airlines is comping both our tickets and two of my publishers are donating some 2000 copies of my books on questions no doubt being asked: Where Is God When It Hurts? and What Good Is God? They’re also offering free downloads to the community that weekend.)
Yes, praying.
Philip,
Thank you so much for your moving words this morning at Walnut Hill. I am back in CT visiting my family, back in the home I grew up in, one town over from Newtown. My mom works at a pediatricians office in Newtown and knows many of the families as they are patients. As you know this tragedy has more than rocked the community. And we often struggle with how to comfort others and even how to answer certain questions ourselves.
Though I still think of CT as home, I currently live in Virginia, in a tight community of special warfare operators and their families, where my husband works. Our group has also often been rocked by horrible tragedies of war and we find ourselves trying to comfort those families and each other as best we can. So much of what you said today in light of Newtown translates to grief and tragedy in general and I am so thankful that we attended today’s service.
In the midst of the holiday season and during one of the few (if only) weeks you probably take some time each year to not work, I am so grateful that you and Janet selflessly gave up that time to be here. Thank you.
Blessings to you both as we enter 2013!
Katie
“Today is the day of a thousand sufferings.
Just like yesterday was the day of a thousand sufferings and
tomorrow will be the day of a thousand sufferings.
You think there are some things that should stay the same
but that always change.
But there are also some things that should change that never do.
Tomorrow will hold just as many sorrows as yesterday
and the yesterday before that
and all the yesterdays in the world since the day we knew that we were naked.
(Selah)
My guitar looks at me looking at it
Watches me contemplate; there are not a thousand notes of healing on those frets.
But there are some, which is more than I have alone.
My guitar looks at me. Meets my gaze steadily.
Leans against the wall with nylon quietness
Says: No.
In answer to the question I have not asked.
Says: Melodies are not meant to be remedies for tomorrow’s memories
My guitar with its red and its strokes pulls away from my hand
Silence, it says, must come first. Silence, and more silence, and mor–
Until the silence becomes a minor chord; dissonant and incomplete,
like the taste of those thousand sufferings
Like these copper bass strings.
And that minor chord becomes a lower harmony;
a hammock woven together by frayed ends.
And that lower harmony becomes finally an upper harmony;
A canopy that catches tomorrow’s thousand more upon its rests.
Cradles them in its frets of forfeited tears and premature fears.
Lays the thousand gently at God’s feet.
(Selah)
I think we may have had enough songs to last a lifetime.”