Seeing Stars

"They're beautiful, aren't they? The stars. I hardly ever look at them anymore, but they are ... quite ... beautiful." --K (Men In Black)
It's one of my favorite movies, not only because I really like Will Smith, Tommy Lee Jones, and especially Frank, but because of my fascination with the stars and the magnificent planets and nebulae in the heavens out there.
There are a lot of things I've missed since my sight went bad a few years ago ... eye contact with people, my grandchildren in particular, and my dog ... reading books ... scenery along the road ... and movies and TV. I can compensate for most of that so it's not such a big deal. I can read e-type-books when they're blown up on my computer, hubby is great when it comes to descriptions along the road, and my choices for movies and most TV shows are ones I've seen a hundred times anyway so I know what's going on.
But there's one thing I've never gotten used to ... looking up at night and seeing a black sky, or a couple of super-bright stars at best. My dark glasses over light-restrictive contact lenses block out practically everything.
Then, a few nights ago when I had already taken my contacts out, I found my old clear-lens glasses and went outside to try and see something. It brought tears to my eyes ... I saw stars! They took my breath away! It had been such a long time! I got to see the Big Dipper before it set (sets really early this time of year) and Orion and Pleiades and Cassiopeia ... they were all there ... and they were so incredibly beautiful!
Tonight I got to do the same thing, if only for a few minutes. Between street lights, neighbors' porch lights, and the reflection of miles of city lights, it took its toll very quickly and I had to quit. But for those few quiet minutes, it was just me and God enjoying those awesome, teeny flecks of light.
I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that no one got very excited when I told them about it. It's something they see every night. What's the big deal about a bunch of stars in the sky? I hope they never have to truly understand.

9/11 ... I Still Don't Understand

On this tenth anniversary of 9/11, I find myself right back where I was ten years ago.

I remember exactly where I was that morning. I was to cover a hospital volunteer shift for a friend who'd be absent. I got up and, still in my pink sleep shirt, I wandered out to the kitchen. Was I in for a surprise! There stood my then-22-year-old son! Horrified that anyone should see me in my sleeper, my first inclination was to run back into my room and put on a robe! But that changed in an instant.

He had the TV on. He was trembling. He put his arm around me. We watched the burning of the twin towers and the Pentagon together. Even his voice trembled as he told me there was a plane on its way to Washington DC and they were talking about having to shoot it down. Details were few that morning, and no one could keep anything straight.

"Where's Melissa?" I began thinking rationally all of a sudden. "Where's Joey?" We didn't know what was going on, if there were more attacks on the way, where, when, what. As a mother, I had to come to my senses and know who was where in case we had to get out of the city.

Mike was working nights back then and, though he had just gotten to bed an hour before, I woke him up anyway. I told him he needed to get up; the country was under attack. He thought I was dreaming. He got up anyway and held me as we all gathered in the living room to watch more and more destruction unfold on TV.

Finally, I had to go get dressed and get to the hospital. Over the years I've felt, in some way, cheated, that I had something else I had to do instead of gluing myself to the television like every other American I knew. But I couldn't let my friend down, and there were still people at work who had to be taken care of. In retrospect, maybe that was a good thing, to keep me from being too drawn in and swallowed up as I often had a tendency to be.

By the time I got home, I saw pretty much all there was to see since they were replaying and repeating everything from every angle to every speculation to try and make some sense and order out of the pure, unprecedented chaos.

That's about all I remember of that day. I think I was on autopilot, in total disbelief and shock. I stayed that way for days as I watched the search and recovery efforts and the endless news stories. It was all anyone talked about for months.

Thankfully, we had baseball as a distraction. My Diamondbacks were playing incredibly well, and made it to postseason and into the World Series. It annoyed me to hear people suggest that they throw the series and let the Yankees win because they had been through so much already. Arizona needed that win just as badly as New York did.

These terror attacks didn't belong to just New York, Virginia, and Pennsylvania. These attacks were personal to every man, woman, and child in America. I know I took it extremely personally, and I still do.

So the Diamondbacks went on to win a very wild roller coaster ride of a World Series. I think that, above all else, helped us heal. And I think by now the Yankees would admit, though piling on yet another loss, they were necessarily distracted from the grief and devastation of 9/11 and were proud of themselves for coming as far as they did in their postseason.

But getting back to 9/11 ... you'd think after ten years I'd be a little less troubled about it than I am. After all, Saddam Hussein and Osama Bin Laden are dead, the rest of the world seems to have moved on, and although I'm utterly sickened by the bottomless pit our current president has dug us into, the world is still turning, the sun still comes up every morning, and seasons still change (for those lucky enough to have seasons).

Yet, even though it has been explained to me countless times by countless different people, I still have one unsettled issue with 9/11 ... Why? I don't understand. How could real people, with real hearts and souls, with all the same body parts and organs as everyone else, even come up with a plan that evil, let alone actually carry it out?

I don't understand how a human being could bear that much hate. Maybe it's because I don't know what it's like to hate another human being. It's a foreign concept to me. This one likely-unsolvable issue has me so bothered. I don't hate the hijackers or the orchestrators. I hate the evil, and I hate what they did. And I hate the destruction and the heartache and the despair. And I'd like to kick the stuffings out of every one of them. I'm angry, I'm sickened, and I'm disgusted. But I can't hate. I don't know how.

And finally, I can't help wondering what God was going through that morning, and every day since. "Where was God through all this?" I've heard it over and over. You know what I think? As always, God was right there with every single person on the face of this earth. Each person had His full attention. Try and grasp that concept! I've talked to Him about this so many times over the past ten years and I've come to know these things for a fact: The evil that was plotted out caused Him great anguish. And the plots that were carried out made Him cry. Yes, God was actually in tears that morning.

So now the tenth anniversary of 9/11 is almost done. I haven't heard of any other attacks today that people were so worried about. But what about tomorrow? The day after? The day after that? Satan the Liar is running wild on this earth, scarfing up every extremist he can get his hands on, filling their souls with hate, and convincing them their wickedness would please God. And he's not doing this only with terrorists ... he's spreading this corruption and filth among the government and the very foundation of this 'Blessed Nation.'

Oh, my Father, things are out of control here on Your earth. Be omnipresent I pray. Keep Your hands close, and shepherd us step by step in Your path. When the path becomes too rocky and steep to go it alone anymore, please strengthen us to carry on and hold out Your hand to keep pulling us forward. And the very moment you're ready, Father, and it can't be too soon to suit me, You have a Son who's anxiously awaiting Your "Let's roll." Amen.

Suaimhneas Síoraí, Barb

Today, the world lost a beautiful lady. And while I'm deeply saddened that I won't be seeing her around here anymore, my soul is singing for joy that it won't be long till I'm seeing her around Heaven.
Barbara was amazing! She was a school teacher for many years, already retired by the time I got to know her. I don't remember the first time I met her but there was a pretty cool story behind why I met her.
I was raised Southern Baptist. The only time I set foot in a Methodist church was to get married because, at the time, I didn't have a church home. But I soon found a Baptist church to join, and that's where Mike and I raised our children. Then, quite unexpectedly, things turned miserable. Going to church became an unwelcome chore. God was clearly calling me away from there. Since I had nowhere else to go, I went with Mike to his parents' church, a Methodist church, and fought tooth and nail against joining. "I'm a Baptist. I've always been a Baptist. No way I'm joining a Methodist church." But God kept tugging on my heart until my stubbornness gave way and I was ready to listen. It took a lot of getting used to, particularly with a lady pastor, but I grew to love it more and more until I had no more doubts about joining up. Barb was choir director there so I knew of her, and waved or said hello to her on occasion, but had never really met her.
Inside of a year, my health took a drastic downward turn. I was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. And then undiagnosed. And then diagnosed again. And on and on the cycle went until I was at the brink of losing my mind! That's when Barbara stepped in. She had had MS for twenty years. She had already been through exactly what I was going through, and she took me right under her wing without so much as a second thought.
The reason I had been led to the Methodist faith had been revealed. God knew what I'd need down the road a whole year in advance, and he set me up for it.
Barb saw me through many many years of the uncertainty of declining health, the most frightening time of my life. Even when I was finally diagnosed as having had several strokes, not MS, I was still having the same kinds of neurological symptoms and I'd still be running to her when it got too tough to handle.
I learned a lot from Barb. Perhaps it was because she was a teacher, but I think more likely it was because she was a Christian. She taught me how to pray when I couldn't find any words. I learned how to use Jesus's strength when I had none of my own. But what I think was most important, was that it's okay to cry and get depressed as long as it doesn't last very long. She'd let me cry and whine awhile, and then said, just like a stern teacher, "All right, that's enough. Now straighten up and go wash your face, and get back to doing what needs to be done." She encouraged me, counseled me, and most of all, she loved me. And now, I hope I have the opportunity someday to carry over that blessing to someone else.
I haven't cried yet. I just can't. Barb is free now. No more illness, no more struggle, and no more sadness. And, being well into my fifties, I'm more and more aware that I'll be seeing her very soon, perhaps sooner than I expect.
Rest peacefully, my dear friend. I'll always keep you in my heart and in my memories.