In the Face of So Much Sadness

This morning, I bounded out of the house, cheerful to see what the day had in store for me. It’s Friday, the last day of my work week, and we’re going out with my sister-in-law tonight to celebrate her birthday. As I approached the bottom of my street, on my way to the bus stop, I noticed a police car blocking both lanes of the intersecting street. Not being able to see clearly around the corner, I decided I’d attempt to walk in that direction, so that I could meet my bus prior to the obstruction, whatever it was. Expecting a blockage due to construction on a large mill building on that street, I wasn’t prepared to see a hook-and-ladder truck extended to the attic of the house of one of my neighbors. There were some residents on the street, and various personnel doing their part, but I misled myself to believe it was very small, seemingly confined to one window, and now being cleaned up. I was more concerned at that point with my own commute, and whether my bus would have been redirected further out of the way, and not come by to pick me up.

After the bus arrived, I was delighted to direct the driver (on his first day with this route) through my neighborhood and get him past the blockage, back on track. At that point, my day got back to normal. That is, until I arrived at work, and was directed to our local news, indicating that what I had seen was the fourth hour of attention by our fire department, and the sad realization that there had been a fatality in the fire. No more details available.

My day got back to normal.

What a heartbreaking few months, we’ve had in the world. At every level of proximity there have been open-ended, frustrating points of unbelievable sadness. From the global concern over the missing Malaysian jet (and every lead seeming to dry up as soon as they are uncovered) to the rising death toll in the mudslides in rural Washington. Closer to home we had two large fires in the last week, and then this morning, I found myself, unknowingly walking through the site of yet another deadly blaze.

Every Sunday, during our church’s call to prayer, I sit at the piano, awaiting the pastor’s “…in your mercy, hear our prayer…” so that I may lead the choir in the morning’s sung prayer response. And so, during those intercessions, I am able to look directly into the eyes of these parishioners, my church family, as they reveal often times unthinkable hardships they are going through. On a recent week, the string, ending with a petition from one of our youth, caused my eyes to well up.

How are we to respond?

Our Lenten sermon series has focused on the tough questions of faith. Why do bad things happen to good people, and the like. While I cannot come up with a grounded response to such a lofty question, I have a question of my own, one for which I may never have a satisfactory answer. How are we to respond in the face of so much sadness?

At least I feel good about it.

Global and national tragedies, in a way, provide us with an easier opportunity to respond. I cannot search for a plane in the Indian Ocean, and I’m not equipped to cross the country to help in Washington state. Prayer is just about the best tool I have to express my sympathies, and to feel like I am helping somewhat. Donations to good causes also go far toward making me feel good in these situations. Whether or not donated money and clothing, diapers, hygiene kits, etc. actually make the survivors feel good cannot be known, as I am not there when they are received. But at least I feel good about it. Right?

Close enough that I won’t do anything about it.

This is why sadness at the local or familiar level is so much harder to wrap our heads around. These fire survivors within one bus stop’s distance of my home may end up displaced for some time. They may have lost beloved family keepsakes. They lost one of their own. And they’re just close enough that I won’t do anything about it. Sure I’ll gaze up at that third floor window, with charred edges, at least until it’s repaired. And then, sadly, I will forget about this. In a few years, I’ll even wonder which house it was that had a fire a few years back. Our neighborhood is full of transient renters in multi-family buildings, mixed in between long-time owners, many of whom also serve as landlords in their own buildings. I consider myself a transient renter in this case, though I have been resident for some seven years. In that time I have not learned the name of a single neighbor outside my building. Not one.

Do I wish it were different? I really don’t know. There’s something comforting in the anonymity of city life. But, in a way, I hope the next step in my development may include an occasional discussion over a picket fence about how those tomatoes are coming along, Neighbor.

For me, the real challenge lies in determining how best to provide comfort to those familiar people who are suffering. Those people who voice concerns at church. I know them, I see them, I talk to them. Is there something I should be doing beyond the corporate prayer that we extend together at a Sunday service? Is that enough?

That won’t stop me from thinking about you.

I doubt it, but I know that often, people don’t want to talk about the pain they are going through. I’ll always remember a conversation with one of my choristers, going through something very difficult to bear. I was interested, and thought that by learning more, I could better understand and help him through it. I admire his bravery in telling me there in our church kitchen that he didn’t want to talk about it anymore. And I was proud of my quick thinking response, something to the effect of “I respect that, and won’t bring it up again, but that won’t stop me from thinking about you.” And in that moment, I could tell that was what his soul needed to hear. I didn’t bring it up again, and don’t know its resolution for him. But that man knows that I love him and sometimes, I’ve found, that’s the best that we can offer.