If You Were There

"In those days there was no king in Israel. Everyone did what was right in his own eyes."

Judges 21:25

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Dear Alex,

You’ve asked: What would I do if a hater of my face and looks is to aim a gun at me?

Or if a shooter bursts through the fireproof doors that have once barred my family from harm and now barricades us with our terrorist?

What terrifies me is how I’ve missed the terror of the Sunday massacre in Owo, Nigeria. Not only was I nowhere in person near the bloodbath at the Catholic church, I did not learn about it until I read your blog last night.

It was not featured in my daily morning e-news capsule from The New York Times or e-news alerts on Sunday or Monday (and I’ve just double checked the contents of my e-mail inbox and spams). I sifted through the recent headlines on my Google news and messages and announcements from my local churches to find nothing about the death of at least 50 people, including children, from the attack on the church.

How can we imagine if we have not known? And to receive, who do we listen to and open our doors and hearts?

In recent fellowship gatherings with your wife and a few women as well as with my local group, a recurring question taunts us: Now what? We’ve heard and talked about the unspeakable hate and violence, warlords and suicides, nightmares remote and within our chambers, but then what?

When my group leader announces our last meeting to be scheduled for this evening with a potluck and interactive reflection on the book of Judges, he invites us to ponder on its final verse. Consider the reality and outcome of one life, family, generation without God - no pillar of cloud by day and of fire by night to guide our wandering. Remember. Return. Repent. We are not a nation accustomed to repentance. I am a proud prick who deserves to be confronted at gunpoint.

This past Sunday on the same day as the massacre in Nigeria, I was spring cleaning, clearing up closets and cabinets for my daughter’s homecoming. This week she’s finishing her final college exams before my long drive to pick her up. I hope for her a passageway to lead her onwards, guard her falls, bring her home. For every child and gunman, may God transform what we could not imagine.

Yours,

Kate