Opportunities Missed

My sons are watching an action show. In action shows people burst into doors and spray the room with bullets and people die.

This happens in real life too. I’ve seen the photos, the blood splattered against the wall where the bullet hit an artery, and the body slumped open-eyed at the bottom of the stairs. Eighteen casings from a AK 47 strewn across the house.

And in the mess photographed by the police to document the crime scene, a book lying on the floor, The Purpose Driven Life. A few years back, like many others, our church participated in this book and series. Unlike many churches who followed the program, we probably had some folks reading that book that could have lived in a house like these victims, who were raising pit bulls (illegal in my city) and marijuana (illegal anywhere in our country).

Who gave these two young men that book? Did they read it? Might it have mattered?

During the trial a woman I am confident is the mother of the deceased man sat and cried as she saw her son’s photograph used for identification. She left before the gory pictures, I was glad.

I can only imagine her going through his belongings after his death, and seeing that book on the floor, and if by any chance she had given it to him, wondering, what if?

It’s so easy to not feel responsible for other people. And in the end, we can only do so much. Someone tried to reach these two guys. But if they had, if their attempt had succeeded, their lives might have been so different, the one still alive. And the survivor, what happened to him? Has he changed? Has he cleaned up his act, gotten out of the drug business? He’s currently facing charges on the drug count. Did he read the book? Would he now?

I wrote these musings after seeing that photograph. The next day, that survivor sat in the witness stand. He told the story of the events, and how he seized an opportunity and ran. He tried to call the police to help his roommate, but heard a volley of shots before help arrived.

When he reached the part of the narration where he related that his roommate was killed, he cried. Two years later. A strong, macho male, in front of a courtroom of people. The prosecutor quietly walked to a desk and placed some Kleenex in front of him. Even the defense attorney was moved by this moment of raw emotion, a young man remembering the horror of his friend's death, and reliving his own guilt, because the grow operation in the house was his own. His friend died, he survived, but the drugs were his.

We also learned that the upstairs bedroom was the survivor's. That photograph captured the book The Purpose Driven Life, also the book 1984, and a handgun. What a capsule of that young man's life. When he retrieved his belongings, did he keep the book? Has he read it since? Do I ask?

Courtroom Haiku

Mothers of victims
Sitting in courtrooms crying
Like Jesus’ mother.

Witnesses from jail
Spilling what they know or don’t
Hoping for freedom

Pain from Head to Toe

Have you ever noticed than when something hurts, then stops, we tend to touch it or move it or bother it to see if it still hurts, setting off the pain again? Why do we do that!

I broke my toe last night. I kept trying to decide if it was really broken so if it ever stopped hurting I'd wiggle it and sure enough, it would send shoots of pain out to tell me the truth.

After my second Monday at court my brain was fried. Sundays are the most draining day of my week, all that people time for my introverted self. Usually on Mondays I retreat, work at home, or do errands, but not heavy on people.

Instead today I spent the whole day with my 14 new best friends (12 jurors and 3 alternates makes 15 including me) and a courtroom of lawyers and witnesses, listening intently to conflicts and confusion.

So my toe hurts, and so does my head. I'm going to bed.

Work

When my oldest was born I moved my office home and began decades of multi-tasking. Yes, I was terribly busy, but I could do the laundry, watch the kids and write my sermons on the same day.

This week and next I am serving on a jury, more on that when it's over. So I have to leave the house every day like most working women and try to fit everything else in after.

Two things have made this manageable. Luke is home from college and has stepped up to help at home. And this week's previously picked sermon passage dovetailed with an article I wrote, so my sermon is actually done already. Thank you Jesus!

So the end result is I have a heightened respect for all my sisters who do it all.