Here’s the Life Lines column I wrote just about 11 years ago, in the days following 9/11. So much has changed since that horrible morning, and yet, for me, this column still resonates with things that feel very much in tune with our world today. Here’s wishing all of you, all of us a future of peace — peace in our hearts, peace in our homes, peace on our planet.
By Mary DeTurris Poust
Noah plopped down on the floor next to me the other day and asked me to read one of his favorite books, “There’s an Alligator Under My Bed,” by Mercer Mayer. As we turned the pages and followed the little boy on his quest to capture the elusive alligator that kept him up at night, I had an eerie feeling that the story was an allegory for what I’d been feeling since that terrible morning a few days before.
The night after the World Trade Center attack, I lay awake in my bed staring at the ceiling, filled with a sense of dread that I could not quite put my finger on. I was scared, but not by the images of horror that had flashed before my eyes for hours that day. Instead my fears seemed frivolous, not at all unlike the little boy’s alligator: Had I left the dryer on in the basement? Was the window over the kitchen sink still open? Were the kids’ pajamas warm enough? I felt a childlike fear of the dark, of things no one else can see, things we parents usually try to hush with a goodnight kiss and a night-light.
When morning finally arrived, I realized that my sleeplessness wasn’t really about what might go wrong within my four walls. It was about what had gone wrong in our world. Long after I had wiped away the tears of sadness that fell as I watched the World Trade Center collapse over and over again on television’s seemingly endless loop of horror, I fought back tears of a different kind — as I rocked Olivia to sleep for her nap, as I kissed Noah good-bye at preschool, as I hugged my husband, Dennis, at the end of a long day. Those were tears borne of fear, tears for tomorrow, tears for a world we don’t yet know. And I didn’t like how they felt.
Despite the fact that I have spent almost two years writing a book on how to help children deal with grief, the events of the past weeks left me in the unusual position of struggling for words. On the day of the attack, when Noah, asked if “bad people” might knock down our house, I reassured him that they would not. When he made a logical leap – at least for a 4-year-old – and worried that they might knock down his grandmother’s apartment building in New York City, I told him he was safe, that no one was going to hurt him or the people he loved. All the while I found myself wondering if I was telling him a lie.
But that kind of thinking leads to hopelessness, and when we lose hope, we leave a void just waiting to be filled by fear and despair and alligators of every kind. Through stories on television and in newspapers, I had seen unbelievable hopefulness in the face of utter destruction. How could I not believe in the power of the human spirit and the ultimate goodness of humanity and a better world for our children?
That night, as a soft rain fell, our house seemed wrapped in a comforting quiet that was interrupted only by the reassuring hum of the dishwasher. With Noah and Olivia asleep in their rooms, I lay down and looked up. For the first time in days I didn’t notice the enveloping darkness but saw instead the tiny glowing stars that dot our bedroom ceiling, a “gift” left behind by the previous owners. As I finally closed my eyes to sleep, I whispered a prayer of hope, a prayer for a world where the only thing our children have to fear are the imaginary monsters hiding under their beds.
This Monday morning got off to a hectic and somewhat frustrating start. Nothing major, just the usual mayhem with a couple of extra inconveniences added in. But that’s all they were really — inconveniences. Unfortunately, my glass-half-empty perspective makes mountains out of these kinds of molehills, and that just leads to more frustration, more mayhem, and all around unhappiness.
So after everyone left for school and while I was waiting for the repairman to show up and replace our smashed-in windshield, I decided to whip up some serious green juice and park myself in a deck chair for five minutes of sunshine and silent prayer along with my shot of chlorophyll.
As I read through Morning Prayer (in Give Us This Day), I got stuck on one line from Psalm 20:
“May the Lord answer you in time of trial.”
When I first came back to that line, I thought, “Yes, Lord, why don’t you help me in this time of trial?” As I reflected a little more and sat in silence looking up at the trees, I next thought. “Trials? Really? Nothing about your life is a trial.” And then I thought about all those people I know who have real, true, heart-breaking trials in their lives. Even at its absolute worst, there really isn’t anything about my current life that can be classified as a “trial.” I am blessed beyond measure and recognize that true trials could come at any moment. Yet I still tend to look at what’s around me and see the negatives.
So I asked God, “Why am I like this? Why did you make me this way?” Seriously. I said that out loud to the trees and sky and birds. Why can’t I express my gratitude with joy rather than fear. And that’s what it comes down to. Again. Fear. I’m always waiting for the other shoe to drop, always trying to prepare for the day when the blessings are pulled out from under me.
And I wondered — as I do on a regular basis — if it’s possible to change such a central part of my personality at such a late date. Not to change my true self but to become my true self, which I think is hidden under my cynicism and doubt and fear. I’ve made minor advances here and there over the years, but never a major breakthrough toward joy. Joy tinged with fear, but never straight-up joy.
As I sat, hesitant to go inside just yet despite lots of work piled up on my desk, I flipped to the day’s readings, which basically focus on good vs. evil, and a subsequent reflection by Sister Gail Fitzpatrick, OCSO. And I stopped cold. Clearly this was the line I was meant to read today, this was the reason I had lingered outside beyond my self-imposed time limit:
“Each of us knows the agony of daily choices that can lead to life and love, or to darkness and debilitating relationships. As individuals and communities we become who we are by the choices we make.”
“WE BECOME WHO WE ARE BY THE CHOICES WE MAKE.”
So I think that was the answer to my question about whether it’s possible to teach an old dog new tricks. Now I just have to focus on making the right choices, not necessarily when it comes down to the big stuff (I think I’ve got that part down for the most part) but when it comes down to the minor details, the stuff that makes or breaks everyday life at home with a family. In a sense, it’s my own personal battle with good vs. evil, light vs. dark. Not the stuff of superheroes, or even supermoms. Just the simple — and yet sometimes oh-so-difficult — decision to choose love.
Today, choose joy, choose life, choose blessings — even those blessings disguised as trials.
In case you missed it (as I did because I just couldn’t stay up that late), here is Cardinal Timothy Dolan’s prayer to close the Democratic National Convention (this link will take you to written version, if you prefer that over the video).
I have a bunch of projects in the works right now that, well, to be perfectly honest, scare the crap out of me. We’re all friends here. I can be honest, right?
Although I can’t say much about anything right now, I’ll tell you this: Every single new work-related thing staring me in the face is going to push me farther and farther out of my comfort zone. And, just to be clear, my comfort zone is the corner of my basement, where I can remain an invisible entity who quietly — and sometimes not so quietly — writes all alone, save for the company of my two cats.
I am perfectly content to be faceless. I don’t need a giant following. I don’t want to get into online arguments with rabid fans. I just want to be. But apparently that’s not what God has planned for me.
Why do I think it’s God behind all this and not my own selfish desires? Because I have had nothing to do with anything that has come my way. I have been minding my own business, going about my mostly anonymous writing, but every week, it seems, I get another email asking me to be part of something I never would have considered for myself. I keep asking, “Is this where I’m supposed to be going?” I guess I’ll never know for sure, but all I know is that I didn’t choose the course. It’s not like I’m sitting here with a Ouija board pushing that little wooden indicator thingamabob toward the answers I want. (Please refrain from writing to me about the dangers and sinfulness of using a Ouija board. I don’t actually own a Ouija board. The image was for effect, but now it’s ruined.)
I keep telling Dennis I just want to disappear, become a hermit. At almost 50 years old, that seems like the more logical path for me. Imagine a little hermit cave at the end of that bridge path in the photo above. I can see myself there quite easily. But, no, that’s not where that little bridge is leading. The other side of my bridge will be filled with traffic and long car rides and occasional plane or train rides, but definitely no cave. And I’m a little panicked over that. Part of me knows I can’t pass up the opportunities, and the other part of me wonders, as I always do when I find myself in this place, why not go get a little job at Hewitt’s garden center? Because that’s not where God keeps pushing me to be, although it’s definitely my Plan B.
For now I’m trying to take it one day at a time and not let things that are weeks or months away destroy my peace today. But I’m not very good at living in the moment. I like living in a moment at least two months, maybe two years down the road. “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it” has never been my motto. I like to cross the bridge at least 50 or 60 times a day in my mind so that I’ll be ready when the real bridge is finally in front of me. You can imagine how tiring it gets crossing bridges all day long.
I’ll keep you posted as things progress, but, for now, if you have a minute and a prayer to spare, please put in a good word for me, that I cross the right bridge at the right time, especially if it’s during rush hour.
Two years ago at this time I was in the midst of a once-in-a-lifetime trip to Rome. Soon after, I wrote this travel story for the Albany Times Union. It is my love letter to Rome. (Be sure to click through my photos at the top of the TU link):
