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I was awakened Friday morning at 6:23 by the robocall from our school district announcing the fifth of our five allowed Calamity Days, for another seemingly-out-of-the-blue overnight snowstorm. When I logged on to Facebook to publicly announce my distress at yet another day cooped up with the kids when I thought I might actually get something done (because that’s what we do with our distress these days), I discovered that my “calamity” paled in comparison to what was happening in the rest of the world.
After watching the computer and TV spew forth new images of death and destruction all day, I was struck my how small we all are in the face of, well, in the face of death and destruction. And yet, how strong and powerful we can be at the very same time. That night, Mark and I rented 127 Hours, the positively stunning true story of hiker Aron Ralston. The next night, we watched Charlotte’s Web with the boys. I know it seems strange to lump these disparate subjects into one narrative, but they seemed to come together in a jumbled and sad and beautiful way. A way that reminds us to appreciate all that we have. To notice how much each small thing matters. The tiny miracle that is the spider spinning its web. The child who believes she can make a difference by fighting for what is just. The strength found deep deep within, when no other strength is left, to cut off one’s own arm. Out of a simple and sheer and unstoppable desire to live.
Having seen and experienced suffering in the up close and personal way that we have over the past three years gives me an unshakable and indescribable affinity with the suffering of others. I’m not saying I’ve been there, because our suffering is minor compared to that of many, but I do feel like I can recognize it, like I get it.
Of all the images coming out of Japan right now, the ones that show piles of cars and trains and airplanes, or crushed houses, or huge roiling waves of debris, are all breathtaking. And yet, none of them are quite so moving as those of the toddler standing alone crying for its mother, or the four-year-old stoically being tested for radiation by a masked man, or loved ones desperately searching the lists of names taped to the walls.
The moments big and small, personal and national in scale all converge together in one great picture of humanity. The suffering one small boy in a hospital bed, the suffering one young man trapped by a boulder. The suffering of a neighborhood, a state, a nation, a world. And the beauty and strength and grace of all those fighting to move beyond it. To survive one more day.
There is no brilliant new wisdom for me to impart except this: Calamity days or not, we hold ours tight. Hold yours tight too.