The Possibility of Hope

The Possibility of Hope

“These are the words I want on my gravestone: that I was a helper, and that I danced.” – Anne Lamott

In January, my roommate, Teresa, and I went to see THE IMPOSSIBLE, a movie about a family’s survival of the Tsunami in Indonesia. We had seen the preview several months earlier. I remembered it vividly because the strapping man sitting next to me was moved to tears just by the preview. He was audibly crying, and it prompted him to reach for his wife’s hand.  It was one of those “pull-out-all-the stops” trailers that sucked you in and made you want to see the movie instantly.

While we knew it would be a difficult movie to watch, the preview assured us it would ultimately be inspiring and uplifting.  We headed to the Angelika at Mockingbird Station on a crisp January afternoon. We had been waiting for this movie for MONTHS, so We. Were. Excited!

As the credits opened, we sat in a crowded theatre and took in the beautiful scene.  Ewan McGreggor, Naomi Watts, and their precious movie children lit up the screen as they headed to an Indonesian resort for a family vacation. It didn’t take long for the chaos to ensue. One moment the family was at the resort pool having the time of their life, and in an instant, the Tsunami hit.

From the offset of the demonic storm, it was obvious that the director of the film wanted the audience to FEEL like they were in the eye of the Tsunami. He succeeded. You felt every blow from the mother’s perspective. We were thrust under the crashing, swirling, violent water with the mother (Naomi Watt’s character). We were tossed around with her and bludgeoned by the debris as it tore around her.  There were many moments where Teresa and I both had our hands splayed over our eyes, peaking through fingers to soften the blows. This went on for about an hour, both during the storm, and during the exhausting aftermath. There was a moment when Teresa and I looked at each other and said, “What have we gotten ourselves into?” with our eyes.

Fast forward several scenes. The mother and oldest son are separated from the father and the youngest two children. The mother can barely walk, and yes, it shows a gaping, bloody wound on her leg as seen through her son’s eyes.  Place hands over eyes...

Fast forward again. The mother and son are found by a native Indonesian and taken to a small village. I was touched and awed by how several women in that village circled around her to wash her and take care of her. They were practically fighting to help her. It was an amazing scene. They eventually transport her to a makeshift “hospital” so she can receive the care she needs. It was a horrific scene.

I was suddenly pulled out of the movie by reality when I began to hear a commotion on the row directly in front of me. A man was yelling at his wife to his left and shaking her gently. As I looked directly in front of me, I saw the woman’s head turned awkwardly upward towards the ceiling. Her eyes and mouth were wide open, but she appeared to be unconscious. It was horrifying.  Her husband was yelling, “Honey! HONEY! Wake up! Wake up! Is there a doctor?! Someone get a doctor!!!! PLEASE!” Imagine any cliché from movies or television, and it took place over the next few moments. The lights came up in the theater. The movie stopped, and the screen went white. All eyes were on the couple right in front of me. The man got on his knees and looked up at the woman sitting to my right and pleaded, “She’s my wife!” with tears in his eyes and anguish in his voice. It’s like we were all witnessing the worst moment in his life.

There were now people approaching the couple and offering assistance, and a nurse who happened to be in the theatre stepped in. The woman having the seizure (or whatever it was) came to and began to make a low howling sound. They laid her out, and the nurse put the woman’s head in her lap and tried to soothe her. I cannot even count how many people were calling 911.

“What’s the address? What’s the address?” a woman shouted repeatedly.

Someone else proclaimed, “It’s Mockingbird Station! I think they can find it!”

At this point, I realized I was standing and alternating on each foot, as if awkwardly  dancing. I wanted to do something to help, but I felt trapped. My roommate looked up at me and calmly said, “Russ…just sit down.” As I sat down, I realized I had apparently, involuntarily unbuttoned my shirt entirely while I was standing distressed. Thank God for cold weather and layers. Teresa and I giggled at that point out of necessity.

The manager of the theatre came in with bottled water for the victim and her husband. Both denied it. A doctor, I assume from the lobby or another theatre came in and talked to the husband and the victim. Everyone in the theatre had a unified look of grave concern on their faces. I looked at the woman to my right, and we had a moment.

“This is insane,” I said.

“I know,” she replied, “the movie was stressful enough.”

After what seemed like forever (actually about 15-20 minutes, I think), the paramedics arrived and gingerly placed the woman on a stretcher. A woman down the row began to ask, almost chanting, “Did someone get her purse? Did they get her jacket? Huh? Did someone get her purse and jacket?”

Someone finally responded, “Yes! See! Her husband has her things.”

We all began to try to get settled.  Some movie goers went out to the bar for drinks. The manager came back into the theater and announced, “OK. If it’s alright with everyone, we will now play the rest of the movie.” You heard a collective sigh as if we were all saying, “Here we go…we’d better brace ourselves.”

Then someone yelled out, “Could you rewind it about five minutes?!”

I’m pretty sure I whispered a four-letter word in reply, but the manager agreed.

We continued to watch the movie. There were many more rough scenes, but there were some profoundly touching ones, as well.

The scene that stood out to me the most was when the mother was lying on the cot in the makeshift hospital, and she looked over at her son. “You should go help people,” she said to him lovingly, “You’re so good at it.”

And he did.

When we left the Angelika that day, we were absolutely spent by the traumatic experience. I prayed for days that the woman in the audience was OK. The movie and the surrounding situation reminded me of life’s fragility, and how powerless we can be, but it also reminded me that as long as humanity maintains its drive to help each other in the face of adversity, this world still has some hope.

My First Marathon

My First Marathon

            I lost my chip. I’ve been training for over six months for this moment, and I won’t have official documentation of my run. I have no idea when it happened, but my chip fell off somewhere between my apartment and the starting line at the American Airlines Center.

            I see my coach and run over to her like a lost first grader. “Jen, my chip fell off! What can I do!?”

            In her usual gruff but positive way, she responds, “Nothin’. No time now, and they couldn’t program a new chip for you anyway. Remember, you’re doing this for you! You are gonna be awesome. You’re ready!”

            Half smiling, I fall into my favorite stretch. I bend at the waist and let my arms dangle to the ground like pendulums. OK. This is it. There’s nothing I can do about it now. Walking toward the starting line, my heart races with anticipation. I cannot believe I’m about to run 26.2 miles.

In elementary school, I couldn’t even do a chin-up on the physical fitness test. I couldn’t run a lap without my side hurting. I wore husky jeans! And now, at 32, I’m taking my fitness to the highest level.

            The signal blows, and we’re off. A chilly dampness fills the air as rainclouds loom, and I feel validated for wearing my water-proof toboggan and windbreaker. I’m relieved as the crowd scatters, and I have room to breathe and run more freely. For the first several miles, I try to occupy my thoughts with anything other than the regret of losing my chip. We run across Dallas, through uptown from the AAC and then cross 75 into the M Streets and Lakewood neighborhoods. It drizzles on and off, but I’m no longer cold. My body temperature has adjusted. Each time I pass a photo stop, I lift my windbreaker, so the photographers can see my bib number. If my mileage cannot be documented, I will have as many pictures as possible…proof that I ran a marathon.

            As I approach White Rock Lake, I have a disturbing realization. Without a chip, my friends and family cannot check my progress and know where I am. For all they know, I passed out where my chip fell off and never made it past the starting line. I start to get panicky, so I slow to a halt at a water stop to call. I ask a random but friendly-looking woman if I can borrow her cell phone. She immediately hands the phone over, and I call my friend Teresa, whose phone is like her sixth sense, so I know she’ll answer. “My chip fell off somewhere! I’m running around the lake. I’m about halfway, so it should be a couple of more hours.”

            I don’t even wait for a reply as I hand the lady her phone with a grateful sigh. Turning around, I notice a long table full of beer shots. They offer beer shots on marathons because beer is loaded with carbs. I shrug my shoulders and down the Dixie cup full of beer as I return to my run on the trail. Who am I kidding? I take a second shot before returning to my run.

            As I continue rounding the lake, I remember my coach’s words. “You’re doing this for you…” but that’s not entirely true. I was doing this for myself, but a part of me was doing it for my father. When he was alive, I was never athletic. My sister was the athletic one, and I was the artistic, musical child. This is another one of those milestones where I want my dad here, like graduation or awards or my promotion. It’s still so difficult not to have a relationship with him, even as an adult. I wish I could see him cheering me on.

            As I continue to feel sorry for myself, I see a towering, middle-aged man holding a fluorescent pink poster board with the words, “Have you seen my daughter? She’s one in a million!” in huge capital letters. Tears immediately sprout from my eyes and mingle with my rain-soaked face. Thank GOD for the rain. After reading those precious words, I am filled with a menagerie of emotions and memories. I am reminded that I take my father with me wherever I go. He is with me, beamingly proud of his son the way that man is of his daughter. As I round the lake, I am smiling and misting and inspired as I begin the last leg of the race.

            The last mile is the most difficult. When I begin to see the AAC in the distance, I feel hopeful but drag at the same time. It can’t be more than a mile away, but my legs feel like overcooked spaghetti that will soon detach from my body. Flailing along, I keep telling myself to hold on. A woman probably 20 years older than me appears on my right with a smile. “Almost there… You can do it! Lookin’ good!” I want to hug her and push her down at the same time, but I give her a pseudo-smile and say, “thanks,” lumbering on.

            Almost there, I remind myself. I hear the crowd cheering. When I get to the big finish, some energetic miracle pushes me to sprint the last few yards. As I near the finish line, I see friends and family cheering to my right side. My mom and Teresa are jumping up and down, and my sister is taking pictures. They are probably freezing but not showing any signs of discomfort.

            I cross the finish line, and someone wraps me in an aluminum-looking tarp and leads me to pictures. A volunteer places a medal over my head. I stand in front of the camera, dizzy with pride and exhaustion.

            I walk back towards my family and friends. I see them in the distance, smiling and proud themselves. In my mind’s eye, I see my dad with a fluorescent orange poster that reads, “Have you seen my son? He’s one in a million.”

Russ Weeks

Keep Singing

Keep Singing

  

As a child I worried about everything.  I worried about my self and feeling different, isolated, and alone. I worried about my family’s well-being.  I worried about school. I worried about questions I had about God and church and the world and everyone’s place in it. I worried about endangered animals. I worried about anything and everything in the world.  I could invent things to worry about. Thankfully, the older I get, the less I worry (some friends and family would beg to differ, but I swear…I’m better than I was!), and the less I fear.

When a national tragedy occurs, however, life thrusts me back into my childhood, and I feel completely helpless and worry-stricken. When the Boston Marathon terrorist explosion occurred, something in me collapsed.  As I drove around on work errands on that mid-April day, I began to hear the news reports on the radio. I remember thinking to myself, “Are you kidding me?! What now?!”

As someone who has run one marathon (yes, only one, and I’m PROUD of it), two half-marathons, and numerous 5Ks, I kind of get the joy of running. I know the exhilarating rush and joy that comes with it. That joy I feel pales in comparison to passionate runners who do so every day and run numerous marathons a year. Running permeates their lives. They get up in the morning to run. They eat, sleep, work, and breathe running. I know some of these people, and I might, at times, think they’re a bit nuts, but they inspire me deeply.  I have heard people in running groups discuss aspirations and dreams of running the New York or Boston Marathon. It is a major milestone for the passionate runner.  I know this is why my heart broke so emphatically for those affected by the bombing at the finish line of the Boston Marathon. While the runners were pushing themselves toward the end of a milestone, some of them came to the end of their lives. Some of them were maimed in such a way that their running lives would never be the same. I could not stop worrying for these passionate runners.

There is a song by Patty Griffin (I promise not to quote her in every blog) that she wrote for her father when he passed away. Her poignant lyrics remind me of an afterlife that I hope for anyone who is taken from this world unnecessarily too soon, especially those who die in pursuit of a passion or a great love. It’s entitled, “Go Wherever You Wanna Go.” We all have the human right to follow our passions and to go where we want to go in life in order to thrive and be the human beings we are destined to be. To me, it seems evil is magnified in a tragedy like Boston’s. Not only did the killers terrorize a group of people, they terrorized a group of people who were pursuing their life’s passion.

On Tuesday, April 16, right after the bombing, I was driving to rehearsal for Turtle Creek Chorale. As I drove, still worrying and thinking about Boston, something clicked. One of my life’s greatest passions is music and singing. What if I could no longer sing? What if I could no longer go to TCC on Tuesday evenings and sing with my Turtle Brothers? And worse, what if someone intentionally took that passion from me…that life force that made my place in this world so valid in my eyes.  As I parked and walked up to Sammons Center for the Arts for rehearsal, I made a promise to myself that I would embrace every moment of this rehearsal. I owed it to myself and to the victims in Boston.

We had a productive rehearsal that night. Our “Kander and Ebb” concert run was two days away, so we ran through song after song with vigor.

As the end of rehearsal neared, our artistic director, Trey Jacobs, began to speak of the bombing and how we could honor the victims. He proceeded to lead us in a song we sang at our fall concert, a recurring song in our repertoire entitled, “The Awakening,” by Joseph M. Martin. The song recounts a dream (or perhaps a nightmare) of a world devoid of music. The dreamer imagines a place where “no bird sang” and “no choir sang to change the world.” At the end of the song, the dreamer awakens and declares:

“Let music never die in me! Forever let my spirit sing! Wherever emptiness is found, let there be joy and glorious sound. Let music never die in me! Forever let my spirit sing! Let all our voices join as one to praise the Giver of the song. Awake! Awake! Let music live! Let Music live!” (Martin).

           

We live in a scary world.  Every week it seems we are bombarded with more bad news. We can all take a lesson from marathon runners. They are an ultimate symbol of passion, perseverance, and accomplishment. We should not let evil or fear keep us from pursuing and enjoying whatever it is that we are passionate about in this life. We owe it to ourselves and to those who have gone before us to thrive in this life in any way we possibly can.

“You can get up on some sunny day and run. Run a hundred miles just for fun now. Heartaches and yesterdays don’t weigh a ton now. You can get up on some sunny day and run. “ – Patty Griffin