I dropped my daughter off at school this morning. It is in a large school and unusual as pre-schools go. The local high school contains a pre-school inside it. Two classrooms of 12 children each, plus teachers, aides, and young high school students learning about child care. There are a few interns from the local university. It has a mix of children, some with speech delays, motor skill issues, physical disabilities, autism and down's syndrome. There are also children who are typical children, but considered at-risk due to economic challenges. It is a wonderful room. And they are all so very beautiful.
Today though, the door was locked. I had to knock. You know why.
And I had to take a deep breath as I walked away and remind myself of what I had told my children on Friday: "millions of children went to school today and came home safely. Those who didn't are part of a horrible tragedy that happens in this sinful world. Jesus is always with us. He will make the world perfect someday. For now, we must love each other and pray for those who are sad."
I tried not to listen to the coverage. Certainly not around the children. But it leaks in here and there and the horror has a near mesmerizing effect. It is hard to look away. It is hard not to place yourself in the role of the parent who stood there, waiting for their child to be brought to the fire station and then be told, "there are no more children coming." We can place ourselves there for a moment, imagine their sorrow and pray for their comfort. But we can't stay there. We cannot be prisoners of fear.
Oh there will be arguments on policy on how to prevent this from happening again. Some will want to arm the schools, others to disarm the criminals, and talks of preventing crime altogether. Changes will be made. Some good, some not good. We've yet to have another plane flown into a sky scraper. Prevention often works. But it is like trying to hold back the tide--somewhere else something bad will happen, someone else will suffer tragedy, sometime again there will be grieving parents. We can't prevent everything. We can't stop sin.
So I returned to school, picked up my little girl from that huge brick building full of bright young people and dedicated teachers and with a sigh of relief. The sun broke through the clouds on the rain-wet world. It was still there, behind those dark low clouds. It was always there.
During World War II the British Ministry of Information designed the poster that has become popular again: Keep Calm and Carry On. It was all part of a huge effort to keep up public morale and courage. Which wasn't just to keep everyone "happy and sunny." It was an essential part of winning the war. It took courage and fortitude and the iron will to not only survive, but to prevail. It was why my grandmother laughed about diving under a dining room table during a bombing raid and joked with her three friends about how silly they must look and while they continued to knit the socks for soldiers the whole time. It was those brave, brave men who carried on despite exhaustion, privation and fear.
We are called to no less. We are called to endure. We live in the one dark planet in the universe, torn by war and marred by sin. But we have the bright hope of perfect days ahead and joyful times now. Even when the dark clouds gather. Even when we stand in shock at the news from Newtown Connecticut. Even when things might grow worse.
We can keep calm and carry on. Not on our own strength, but in the strength of the promise that He is always with us. He will come and fix it. He will hold them in His arms until the times of sorrow is past. He will hold us in His arms.
Michael Card wrote a beautiful song called "I will bring You home."
Though you are homeless,
Though you're alone,
I will be your home,
Whatever's the matter,
Whatever's been done,
I will be your home . . .
In this fearful fallen place,
I will be your home.
When time reaches fullness
and I move my hand,
I will bring you home,
Home to your own place,
In a beautiful land,
I will bring you home,
I will bring you home.
