A beautiful world - a note about Ukraine

I am not a person who watches the news.  But I have been glued to it for the last two days watching Ukrainian women and children leave their country and men behind to fight an uncertain war against an unpredictable invasion with inadequate resources.  

The images haunt me even when I'm not parked in front of the television.  Women putting on brave faces for their children; Men vowing to stand and fight holding back tears as they walk away from their families; Children, in all their innocence, following the adults obediently and silently.  I am struck by the universality of coping.  Their actions being the exact opposite of what I know they are feeling.  And I am heartbreakingly in awe of their strength.  

Every day we wake up to our same old, mundane seeming lives and we go about our same old, mundane seeming business without so much as blinking at the luxury of it all.  The warm bed upon which we've slept.  The hot water flowing from our pipes.  The food stockpiled in our pantries.  We move through our morning routines without stopping even for a second to acknowledge the sun rising.  Miracles.  Every day.  Unnoticed.

I'm not mad at us for it.  It is our nature to make ourselves comfortable.  We are human, after all.  But in times like these I feel compelled to pause and be, momentarily, in community with those who are suffering the unimaginable.   Do we not have an obligation as part of the human race to sit for a moment and really think about what it would be like to be in their shoes?  Gosh, we resist doing this, don't we?  It is so hard.  It practically shreds you apart to imagine saying goodbye to your family, your home, your livelihood, your certainty.    

This morning, I watched a news story that highlighted the humanitarian aspect of this ordeal.  The reporter covered a husband who was saying goodbye to his wife and two children before walking away, bravely, back into the face of danger.  The man stated that he didn't want to leave his country.  That he would stay. And fight.  The reporter interviewed his wife who stood stoically, only a single tear, betraying her brave face.  "It is his character to want to stay.  He loves his country."  

I imagined that would be me.  I know my husband.  I am that wife.  Would I be so brave?  How will she sleep tonight?  Will she weep lonely tears of desperation in the night while her children are asleep?  Of course she will.  How can I sleep next to my husband and bear that this is happening in my very own world?  

The camera panned to a lone little girl dressed from head to toe in yellow.  She shone like the sun.  She was no older than my own son.  Six, maybe seven.  She stood alone with her suitcase.  One of the sweet rolling ones with wheels.  My youngest son just got one of those for his birthday.  She stands alone in a sea of people.  Alone.  Her sweet little face fighting back tears.  Trying to be brave.  I closed my eyes and for a moment allowed myself to picture my oldest son, Silas, standing there with his suitcase, alone, fighting back tears.  It hurt so much I became nauseous.  But I stood there, tears streaming down my own face, holding that image in my mind's eye.  I did it dutifully.  I cried the tears the little girl couldn't afford to shed in that moment.  I prayed that her grown ups were somewhere nearby.  I prayed that her Mother was not stuck helplessly somewhere begging God that a kind stranger would find her, take her to safety, and give her love.  

How will these people endure these circumstances?  How will they recover from these experiences?  How will any of us heal from so much sadness and pain in our world?  

I don't know the answer to How.  But I do know that they will.  We will.  Because, my God, we are strong.  Many of us have experienced the very land beneath our feet giving way.  We have felt the numbness of a moment so terrifyingly uncertain that we could not afford to feel.  We have woken from a restless sleep to a world forever changed.  We have shielded ourselves from travelling back in memory because it was just too much to bear.  

And sometimes, in the midst of all of that ... we have felt the comforting embrace of a stranger.  Or we have felt the wrenching open of our hearts at the smallest kindness.  Or we have begun to feel the precious relief of Hope.  And it is in these small gestures, right in the midst of terror, that we truly find the beauty of living.  Life can be so terrifyingly beautiful.  But only if we feel all the things.  

What is happening "over there" is happening to all of us.  No, we are not all directly experiencing the trauma and devastation that these incredible people are enduring, and by no means, do I mean to indicate that any of us can know how they are feeling.  But when something happens to one, it happens to us all.  This is why we feel glued to our t.v. screens, or even more so why we feel the need to turn the t.v. off.  It hurts to acknowledge our own frailty, our own vulnerability, and, dare I say, our own potential for evil.  But sometimes the things that hurt are exactly what we need in order to grow.  

I was recently very moved by the ending of the Netflix movie "Don't Look Up."  Just before a planet-killing comet strikes the Earth, the main characters of the movie are sitting down to a Thanksgiving-style meal with loved ones. The very last words uttered by the main character played by Leonardo DiCaprio are, "We really had it all, didn't we?"  No truer words have ever been spoken. We really have it all.  Warm water.  A roof.  Clothing.  Music. Art. Books. Coffee.  

My prayer is this.  That we all take a moment, even just five minutes, to sit in the real discomfort of feeling what it would feel like to be under attack, protecting your children, separated from everything you know.  Just sit in it.  Cry, and let your heart ache.  Share this burden.  It is our human responsibility to do so.  And then come back to your life.  Go out and live.  Go to the nail salon.  Eat a piece of chocolate cake.  Take a hot shower.  But do it with more gratitude than you've ever felt.  With more presence.  Revel in, feel, and taste every bit of it.  And hug your children.  Hug them tighter when they begin to pull away.  And feel the ache when they do.  Let your life be vibrant with color and music.  And don't let even an ounce of the terrifying beauty of this world pass you by.  We owe it to each other to share the beautiful burden of Life.  

"With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world."  

Good night, my friends.  If you are reading this, you have my Love.  Every sweet, dripping ounce of it.