And Jesus Wept: A tale of two statues (and how they challenge us)

There's a statue in downtown Oklahoma City that countless people walk by each year.

Aptly titled And Jesus Wept, this statue depicts the grief of Jesus that we read about in Scripture (see Jn 11:35). Placed across the street from the Oklahoma City National Memorial, this statue reminds us that Jesus knows what it means to grieve. He is with us in our pain, and he mourns as we mourn. We remember the 168 people who were killed in the April 1995 bombing and the countless other people whose lives were upended by this act of violence. When we look at this statue, we remember that in our grief and pain, Christ is present and full of love and compassion; he suffers with us. 

Glancing back, moving forward: 10 years in Oklahoma

When I first moved to Oklahoma, I never imagined that I would drive down the highway, a Carmelite nun in my passenger seat, after attending Mass at a shrine dedicated to a modern martyr. I never imagined that five young children would also be in that van, three of whom were born at home. I never imagined that I would eagerly be pursuing self-publishing. 

Yet, there I was on a recent afternoon, chatting with a nun as I drove us from Mass at the Blessed Stanley Rother shrine to a local home for the dying. A book manuscript sat on my laptop at home, waiting to be sent to a freelance editor. My five young kids filled the van with their happy chatter, and I grinned in disbelief. I was living an ordinary day, and the gifts of the moment were incredible. 

Ten years ago, when my husband and I moved to Oklahoma in an unusually rainy summer, I did foresee any of these blessings. 

I hoped to find a good community, grow as a writer, and welcome children into my home. I hoped to have fun adventures with my husband and make good memories. When we drove down to the Oklahoma City metro, all of our belongings (aside from two boxes of books that didn't fit and had to be mailed) packed into a sedan, I had dreams for the future--but no idea how they would be fulfilled. I did not foresee the incredible blessings God pours into the ordinary days of my ordinary life.

 

I had no idea how this new adventure would challenge me, either. 

I could not imagine the deeply difficult experiences I would undergo physically, emotionally, physically, and spiritually. God has used countless moments and experiences to expand my love, sacrifice, and trust. He has poured down mercy and grace and love again and again. 

He has brought incredible people into my life; some of whom I don't see often anymore, some of whom I've grown close with over time, some of whom I see more frequently in some seasons than others. I've discovered delightful communities and places across the Oklahoma City metro area. My husband and I have grown in and through a beautiful marriage movement that we never even knew existed until we had lived here for a few years.  

Habemus papam

Messages flooded the screen, stating that there was white smoke at the Vatican. “Sorry kids, Anpanman will have to wait,” I said as I grabbed the laptop and switched from a video streaming service to a livestream by a Catholic news service. We looked at the huge crowd that was gathered and the clusters of cardinals that stood on balconies, a hint as to who wasn’t the new pope.

The days following the death of Pope Francis had felt odd; we were mourning the death of our father, while also knowing that sometime--probably in the near future--we would have a new Holy Father. The sorrow had mixed with a joyful anticipation. Now, the white smoke had shown that our wait was over. 

A man stepped out onto a balcony and declared: “Habemus Papam.” Tears sprang into my eyes. As my children chattered, I tried to listen for a name. I couldn’t catch it, but suddenly, there on my screen was a picture of a cardinal I had never heard of…from America! Moments later, that same man walked onto the balcony and blessed the crowd as peace flowed from his youthful gaze.I was stunned and ecstatic, and a thousand and one questions whirled through my mind. However, my kids had been waiting to watch their movie, to I started Anpanman and left to rest with the baby. 

Later on, slightly more rested, I knew that I needed to do something. How could I sit inside and field countless questions from my other kids about Pokémon or Star Wars when we had a new pope? I glanced at the backyard and suddenly knew what to do.

Life, Death, and the Year of Hope

When I first moved to Kansas, people told me: “If you don’t like the weather, wait a few minutes, and it will change.” I’ve heard this same sentiment in Oklahoma, too. The weather is unpredictable and constantly in flux. It can be cold and snowy one day—to the extent that the public library system closes down—and just a few days later, we stand outside in t-shirts, watching snowmen melt in sixty-degree weather. 

The changeability of the weather makes me think of hope—because if you truly don’t like the weather you’re currently experiencing, it’ll change in a minute or two. The cold won’t last forever; it won’t even last long. The short month of February always seems to contain both an ice storm and a seventy-degree day or two. Overcast, drizzly days don’t come often, and I know that after a few days of grey skies, the fierce sunshine will be back in full force. It's like life with small children. It's like life in general. There's darkness and light, gloom and joy, all smashed together in a wild jumble. 

My children and I were in the living room at a local home for the dying recently; it seemed like a fairly normal weekday. Letter flashcards were strewn across the floor, one child worked through a math book, other children chatted with volunteers in the kitchen. I held my baby up to one resident as we enjoyed watching the baby’s smiles and coos. Everything was peaceful, all was serene.

All at once, everything shifted. One child got scared of a (very gentle) service dog that entered the building. Another child made a mess and needed assistance in cleaning it up. The peaceful air was suddenly tinged with frenzy as multiple children needed me at once. 

A nurse dashed up to me. “How can I help?”

I thrust the baby in her arms and turned to the other children. Soon, everyone was taken care of and all was peaceful once again. A different caregiver walked up, holding my baby. I thanked her and remarked that everything always seems to happen at once.

“When things get crazy, I usually don’t even have time to stress-text my husband,” I said, mentioning that things seem to quickly bounce back and forth between chaos and calm. Little did I know that within the next week, I would see this reality play out in a dramatic way. 

It was late in the evening the next day when I received the message:

A flight from Wichita crashed.

Wichita? 

A PreK Gourmet

 My four-year-old proudly walked over to me, holding a stone aloft in his small hands. “Dinner!” he proclaimed, before holding out the stone, on which lay a selection of mint leaves. I ate a couple, and he scurried off to his “jungle”—a corner of our house that is overgrown with grass, weeds, and some variety of mint plant that I thought had died off long ago.

As my son happily continued to work and play in his “jungle,” nibbling on green onions and mint leaves, my mind drifted to the “local food movement.” With its farm-to-table meals, foraging classes, and countless workshops offering expertise in a variety of topics, there is a wealth of information and resources for people who desire to get “back to the land.” However, I’ve noticed that there also can be a trend to complicate matters.

A Decade of Learning

On this day ten years ago, I got to see a relic of St. John the Baptist—the man who baptized Jesus. Seeing that relic as I traveled in Austria was really cool, and it is also a great starting point as I think about the years that have filled the time between that moment and today. 

Then, I was a bright-eyed sophomore in college, nineteen years old and excited to traipse across Europe with my fiancé for an entire semester.

I somehow lost that awesome hat on a train in Austria, sadly.

Now, I’m a sleepy-eyed stay-at-home mom, twenty-nine years old and happily having adventures with my husband and four children in Oklahoma.

Life looks a little bit different now than it did then!

Later this month, I’ll turn thirty, and as I prepare to leave my twenties behind, I feel a lot of gratitude to God. The past ten years have included a lot of suffering, joy, happiness, sorrow, and growth. They have been a tremendous gift. As I prepare for whatever God sends me next, I'm also thinking about six things I would love to tell myself when I was preparing to turn twenty:

The Light Shines Forth

Recently, after some very wonderful and very intense conversations with loved ones about the state of our culture, I grew fired up about countless problems and injustices in our country. Soon after that, I spotted Nomadland at the library and less than 48 hours later had finished it. I thought about the stories of the people in that book, and I thought about the recent lively conversations I had participated in. And I felt it all weighing down on me. And from under that heaviness, I heard the words proclaimed: 

 "The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; Upon those who lived in a land of gloom a light has shone. You have brought them abundant joy and great rejoicing..."  (Is 9:1-2a)

This prophecy of Christ, our Light, always seems to come along when I need it. Isn't it funny how God works? 

Listening to these words ring through the classroom where I sat, I was struck by the darkness in our country. We do not have to look far to see inequality and brokenness tear people down and rip them apart. It can tug at us, nudging us to anxiety and despair. We see the problems around us, and we can grow overwhelmed at the seemingly little that we can do. 

To be Ralph in a despairing world: Hope in Lord of the Flies

This book really speaks to me of hope. I closed the novel, my mind churning at a thousand miles a minute. When I've shared this sentiment with different friends, it's been met with chuckles and raised eyebrows. I can understand these reactions, because hope is not something people generally associate with Lord of the Flies, by William Golding. Even people who haven't read the book often (rightly) associate this book with savagery. Yet, while Lord of the Flies depicts young British schoolboys caught up in a "survival of the fittest" scenario in all of its brutality, hope glimmers through. 

When the boys in Lord of the Flies discover that they are stranded an an island, with no adults in sight, they realize that they need certain things to survive. As in any group of imperfect, desperate humans, they argue and divide themselves as they try to create a method for survival. Ultimately, the boys rally behind two leaders, Ralph and Jack. Ralph's priority is to keep a fire burning, so that a passing ship may see them and come to their aid. Jack Merridew, on the other hand, recognizes his immediate hunger, and his priority is hunting pigs. 

Realizing their own hunger and desire for food, more and more boys walk away from Ralph, and slip into Jack's group of hunters. Ralph sees these young boys fall into anonymity and bloodlust as they paint their faces and gather around their prey. He hears the frenzied chant rising from their lips: "Kill the beast! Cut his throat! Spill his blood!"