It has been quite a while since I wrote a post, between the spring end-of-semester chaos, a summer of indulging in novel-writing, and a new semester with four courses to teach and a research deadline to meet. My last post was a reading and play list for Good Friday and Holy Saturday, which I created because I wanted to slow down in those two days before the triumphal celebration of Easter morning and contemplate the darkness–the real horror of the crucifixion, and the mourning and uncertainty that would have followed for the ones who followed Jesus.
So, perhaps it is fitting that this post follows that one, because since yesterday afternoon, I have also been grappling with darkness, with mournfulness, and with uncertainty. As I began my third class of the day yesterday, a student read details of the latest school shooting to us from her phone, but right then, the news didn’t quite have time to sink in.
After class, though, came a text from a friend, accompanied by a picture of two men clipped from a news article. Did I know this student, she asked, who had been arrested on suspicion of killing another student from my university? I looked at the picture in shock. I didn’t know the young man wearing correctional-facility orange, but I did know the other man, Antonio “Tony” Moore. He was a military veteran in his late thirties who had been in a class of mine a few semesters before, and had stopped by my office to chat on various occasions, saying that he needed to “escape” from the young engineering “geeks” in his classes and talk to someone who knew how to have a conversation. This always made me laugh and say that I was just a different breed of geek.
I hadn’t seen Tony recently, and I didn’t know that he had been missing for weeks. How had this tragedy unfolded practically right under my nose–the victim someone I knew, and liked, and had traded stories about parenting with–and I hadn’t known about it until my friend’s text?
Probably because I only pay minimal attention to the news. I’m a high anxiety type, and I try to hold events that are out of my control or out of my sphere at a distance for the sake of my sanity. But when my afternoon is twice interrupted with tragic news, there’s no way to escape the fact that I work on a campus where there has already been one shooting and where Tony Moore will not be stopping by my office again.
The darkness is not at a distance. It’s right here. All around.
So with tears in my eyes I came home yesterday and engaged in what I sadly joked to friends via Facebook was “Triple B” therapy: beer, bacon, and boys. After all what could be more comforting than a rich brown ale, salty saturated fat, and long cuddly hugs from the sweetest little fellas around? Not much, right?
But once dinner was over and the boys were read to and kissed and tucked away in bed, all I really wanted to do was curl up in bed and with my laptop and something escapist on Netflix. Or, in other words, squeeze my eyes shut and bury my head in the sand so that I could, in an illusion of safety, ignore everything horrible and awful and dark in the world around me.
But that’s the irony. If you close your eyes and stick your head in the sand, there’s nothing down there but darkness.
As this occurred to me and I thought again about the victims of the most recent shooting, about Tony, and about all of the darkness in this world, a particular Bible verse came to mind, perhaps because I had seen it go by on Facebook recently, posted by another former student of mine on a hand-crafted Christmas card.
“The light shines in the darkness and the dark has not overcome it.” John 1:5
And so I write this post in part to remind myself that this is true.
No matter how much darkness there is, the light still shines among us.
And the “us” is key.
If we withdraw, disengage, succumb to fear and stick our heads in the sand, then the light is obscured from view.
The light shines when we love each other, when we reach out to one another, empathize with one another, and serve one another.
So let’s love each other, y’all, and keep looking toward the light.
It hasn’t gone out.
Narnia Christmas Card by Kelly Maust at