A Senseless Act

Yes, today I’m staying home. The past few days have been hard. My stepmother was murdered in her own home.

The facts are not important, except that a 70-year-old woman was vulnerable because of her age and because she lived alone in an inner city neighborhood.

Is this what we all come to as we grow older and lose our companions? Do we all have fear to look forward to? Must older people move from the homes where they’ve lived for decades simply to find safety in gated communities or residential homes (which usually include only one room, a private bathroom, and perhaps a kitchenette)? Just to be safe from the crimes that are aimed at the vulnerably elderly or disabled or those who have no obvious protection in this world where the consequences seldom deter the commission of horrid and violent deeds?

Where is God in this scenario?

I believe God is there, even during those horrible acts which shock and sadden us and strike fear into our hearts. He is there watching, sad at the way some people use the free will he gifted to us all. He does not allow these things to happen, but he does allow us to use our free will in whatever way we choose. I don’t blame God, nor do I feel he has let us down. I simply feel a bit of comfort knowing he is there for the victims, pulling them into his metaphorical arms and embracing them with his all-loving presence.

Back in the early 1990’s my mother in law was still living in a home she had shared with her husband until his death in the mid-1970’s. They bought the home in 1963, their dream home in a modest middle class neighborhood. Then in the 1980’s the neighborhood began to change. Some of her neighbors passed away, and the the owners of the homes did not seem to care enough to keep their houses in good repair. I remember that among the new people who moved into the neighborhood, there was one family who cared and watched over her as much as they could. The father in the family was a fireman, and he told us that he had come to check on Jim’s mother several times when she called him afraid and yet hating to have to call upon someone. The culminating events that led to us encouraging her to move into a residential village for elderly persons was when not once,  but twice, gunshots hit her house. Though she didn’t want us to worry and didn’t say anything about these events, the evidence was clear in the picture window in her dining room… where she sat to eat her meals daily. It was a sad day when Jim and his brother and wife and I gathered to help move her into a secure home. The home was nice, the nicest around, but still, it was a substitute for a home she owned, a home where she could have children and grandchildren visit and stay overnight, a home where she could cook her own meals, a home where she could enjoy having friends over for cards or just to visit.

Now with the tragic and senseless death of my stepmother I feel a bit of inner rage. The shock is gone. An underlying sense of sadness is settling into my soul. But at this moment in my personal cycle of grief is a rage. I want to take those three teenagers (yes, 15 and 16 yr olds) who broke into her house and I want to turn back the clock and find a way to shake some sense into them. I want to teach them the preciousness of life. I want to teach them respect for the elderly. I want to teach them to love others as God loves them. I’m so angry. I’m so sad.

I loved Pirkko, and only the knowledge that she loved God and now is at peace will get me through this grief.

Dennis

Sitting up in bed last night and watching the coverage of the fires in California made me think of a dear friend from San Diego who had been a fireman there. 

We first met Dennis when my childhood friend married him and brought him home to meet everyone. He had been a fireman and was injured several times. From falling through at least one roof (two I think), he’d damaged his hips. He was a man in his 50’s when we met him, drawing disability for his injuries. He suffered a lot with hip pain. Both hips had been replaced, one twice.

He loved the small town where we lived then, the place where my friend’s family and mine had lived for generations.  But when he and my friend bought a huge old two-story house that Jim and I had once owned, I was surprised — and thrilled. 

For the next few years the friendship grew and a deep bond was formed. Dennis was like a dear brother to us, and at last (after a lifetime of only seeing my childhood friend in snatches of a few days or weeks at most) we had my friend only a few blocks away.  Then Jim went into the ministry, and we began to move around to the churches he served.

Although gone from Dennis and my friend, we knew we would all spend our retirement years together in that small town we all loved. Whenever we’d go to visit our daughters and their families, we would visit with Dennis and Christa, sometimes even staying at their house. Those visits were precious. We didn’t realize how precious until Dennis got sick.

The ultimate diagnosis was not good. We lost Dennis in 2004 at the age of 59.

I still cry thinking of him, thinking of this fine man who was taken from those who loved him at an age when he should have been planning the next 20 years of his retirement. He was a fine man indeed. He was a people person. Despite his disabilities, he worked hard to help his new neighbors and friends. He was always there in a disaster, pitching in with his knowledge of emergency medical aid and just plain general knowledge of what to do. When tornadoes hit nearby, he was among the first to go and offer help.

He was a large man, a kind man, a gentle man. And yet he was a rock. He was a product of California’s beach culture of the 60’s, a surfer, a big blond man who was handsome beyond belief. I will never forget him. Times like last night, when I was watching the fires that are destroying so much of the place that he called home for most of his 59 years, touched deep into my soul and brought back all this love and loss to me. Today I’ll call Christa, for I know in my heart that she is feeling these same things during this tragedy that is befalling those in California.

Please pray for those who are suffering. These fires are going to have so much more impact on ALL of us in this nation than any tragedy that has ever befallen us in the past. Even more than Katrina. Just think about it. And then say a prayer.

Later, y’all.

(P.S. I’ll never forget your stroganoff, either, Dennis.)