Life, Death, and the Year of Hope

When I first moved to Kansas, people told me: “If you don’t like the weather, wait a few minutes, and it will change.” I’ve heard this same sentiment in Oklahoma, too. The weather is unpredictable and constantly in flux. It can be cold and snowy one day—to the extent that the public library system closes down—and just a few days later, we stand outside in t-shirts, watching snowmen melt in sixty-degree weather. 

The changeability of the weather makes me think of hope—because if you truly don’t like the weather you’re currently experiencing, it’ll change in a minute or two. The cold won’t last forever; it won’t even last long. The short month of February always seems to contain both an ice storm and a seventy-degree day or two. Overcast, drizzly days don’t come often, and I know that after a few days of grey skies, the fierce sunshine will be back in full force. It's like life with small children. It's like life in general. There's darkness and light, gloom and joy, all smashed together in a wild jumble. 

My children and I were in the living room at a local home for the dying recently; it seemed like a fairly normal weekday. Letter flashcards were strewn across the floor, one child worked through a math book, other children chatted with volunteers in the kitchen. I held my baby up to one resident as we enjoyed watching the baby’s smiles and coos. Everything was peaceful, all was serene.

All at once, everything shifted. One child got scared of a (very gentle) service dog that entered the building. Another child made a mess and needed assistance in cleaning it up. The peaceful air was suddenly tinged with frenzy as multiple children needed me at once. 

A nurse dashed up to me. “How can I help?”

I thrust the baby in her arms and turned to the other children. Soon, everyone was taken care of and all was peaceful once again. A different caregiver walked up, holding my baby. I thanked her and remarked that everything always seems to happen at once.

“When things get crazy, I usually don’t even have time to stress-text my husband,” I said, mentioning that things seem to quickly bounce back and forth between chaos and calm. Little did I know that within the next week, I would see this reality play out in a dramatic way. 

It was late in the evening the next day when I received the message:

A flight from Wichita crashed.

Wichita? 

The city where I grew from an awkward middle school student to a slightly-less awkward college student. The city where I read countless books and Irish danced and got my first job at a pizza place. The city where I danced the night away with friends at a nightclub that featured live bull riding. The city where I began intensely exploring the rich wisdom of the Catholic church and fell in love with God in a deeper way. The city where I cheered at high school football games and ate bierocks for the first time and taught religion classes and discovered the Extraordinary Form of the Mass. The city where I got married to my husband, and where countless people prayed for, supported, and encouraged us. The city that felt like a big "small town" and was filled with good-hearted people, Catholic and non-Catholic alike, who showed me God's love in countless ways. 

And a flight from this city, tucked in the middle of America, crashed?

As I stared at the message onscreen, my mind started racing. How could this happen? Were there any survivors? Did I know anyone on the flight? I held my sleepless baby and clicked around the internet, hunting for answers—but no one had any yet. No news. No certainty. Nothing. 

My baby finally slept, and I collapsed in bed, too. The enormity of this event hit me as tears dripped on my pillow. None of my family or friends were on the flight--that I knew of, at least. Yet, the passengers all mattered. Each one of them was a human person with infinite dignity and worth. Each one of them had a family, friends, relatives, fellow community members. We were all united in our humanity, each of us made in the image and likeness of God.

I lay there, awake, and thought of the other people who were awake: close family and friends of those on the flight who were awaiting their return to D.C. or who were waiting back home in Kansas. People who were desperately seeking answers from the airport, from authorities, from anyone. People who were hurting deeply. 

Morning dawned and I gathered with my children for our daily Bible reading and storytime together. The day before, we had read from Psalm 46, so on this particular morning, I opened the Bible to Psalm 47:

“All you peoples, clap your hands; shout to God with joyful cries. For the LORD, the Most High, is to be feared, the great king over all the earth, Who made people subject to us, nations under our feet, Who chose our heritage for us, the glory of Jacob, whom he loves.” (Ps 47:2-5)

As a tragedy unfolded, directly impacting the city just a few hours from our home, we offered these words of praise and thanksgiving. God is king, and in the midst of all the suffering and horror and death, he holds us in love and offers us life with him. Even as tears fell and I grieved this tragedy--which hit so close to home--the words of Scripture reminded me that in times of sorrow, we can still rejoice in God's providence. 

Abundance, I thought, remembering a recent newsletter I sent out. God is abundant. Abundant in mercy, abundant in gifts, abundant in love and mercy, abundant in life and joy. In the past month, there has been an abundance of suffering and death that's impacted so many people. From fires in California to the hardships endured by immigrants, from executions to the Wichita flight tragedy, from the death of a resident at the local home for the dying and then the death of a beloved neighbor, there's been so much that strikes my heart. So much that's pushing me to examine my priorities and focus on what really matters. So much that's moved me to tears. 

But, there's also been an abundance of joy. 

Visits with relatives and adventures outside. Enjoying freshly-baked cookies while playing Mario Party Jamboree as a family. Playing games and listening to music with my husband, and praying with him each evening before bed. Celebrating my birthday with steaming bowls of pho and creamy bowls of gelato, and laughing at how the bowl was bigger than my six-year-old's head. Letting my heart and soul be filled and encouraged at the online Catholic writer's conference. Celebrating Christmas and feast days, reconnecting with friends and eating pizza with others as we brainstormed ways to support married couples in our community. Seeing my pastor's joyous smile each week when my kids and I show up at church for our Adoration hour. Watching my next-door neighbor hold my baby the morning after her husband died. 

I'm grateful that we are in the Year of Hope right now, because there is so much--a thousand things beyond what I've noticed and mentioned, I'm sure--that is hitting our country and world. So much sorrow, so much loss, so much grief. And yet, in the face of all of this, we are reminded to hope, to place our trust in God. To embrace the joy of Christ's Resurrection as we live in a world of suffering and death. Pope Francis writes: 

"Through our witness, may hope spread to all those who anxiously seek it. May the way we live our lives say to them in so many words: “Hope in the Lord! Hold firm, take heart and hope in the Lord!” (Ps 27:14). May the power of hope fill our days, as we await with confidence the coming of the Lord Jesus Christ, to whom be praise and glory, now and forever."

Amen.