Dealing with catastrophe

For the past two days in my English classes, I have been emphasizing to my students the importance of using our journal-writing time for thoughtful rumination, rather than listing and itemizing basic day-to-day activities. I contend that they are bored with the journal activity, and are therefore uninspired when faced with the daily entry.

Here is an example of what I am talking about. This morning on ChannelOne news, there was a segment on the 60th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz concentration camp. The reporter interviewed a survivor of Auschwitz who was a child when in captivity there. She is now 85 years old. One thing she said struck a chord with me. It was something to this effect: "We never know if tomorrow will bring a catastrophic event to our lives. How strong will we be if the catastrophe happens to us?"

Catastrophe occurred in my life on an innocent Thursday in late October, 1982. I answered the phone call that no one ever wants to answer. Mom was on the other end, and with a choking voice, she said that Dad had been in a combine accident. She wanted us to come to the hospital in Hillsboro immediately. It was the beginning of an absolutely numbing few days. Before I could get to the hospital, Dad was being transported by ambulance to Cincinnati, and he died in transit.

Even after 22 years, I miss him terribly. I can still remember the last conversation we had, and the last thing I said to him. I was never a "Daddy's girl," and we weren't extraordinarily close, but, oh, to lose him hurt for a long, long time. I still feel his loss, and grieve that my kids never got to know their grandad, and, even, sadder, that he missed out on knowing them.

A second catastrophe occurred for my family, or I should say, my husband's family, on March 7, 2004, when his niece, Keely Jo Maxwell was killed in a car wreck. She was 17 years old, the absolute light of her parents' life, and had the most amazing future ahead of her imaginable. Keely was unbelievably talented in volleyball and basketball. As a matter of fact, she was on her way home from a college visit to Kent State, where she most wanted to go on a volleyball scholarship, when the wreck occurred. Again, the next few days were a nightmare. The grief suffered by the family was staggering.

We are still grieving. The pain lessens for some of us, but her mother and father, her brother, and her grandparents continue to feel the pain of the loss. I don't know how one recovers, honestly. The very thought of losing a child in a senseless accident is too painful to consider.

Now, when I think of the recent catastrophes that have been in the news from around the world, I try to imagine our anquish multiplied millions of time over. It's difficult to wrap one's brain around such utter pain. Those affected by the tsunami, those affected by insurgents in Irag, those killed in the horrible train wreck in California, and so many more are all suffering in their own ways. As insurmountable as the pain is, somehow they will all get through it.

And that takes me back to the 60th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz. The sweet-yet-sad-looking 85-year-old survivor speaks quietly, but speaks volumes. She does not hate her captors; she spreads words of hope for others; she stresses that we must not let future generations forget the senseless loss of life, nor must we permit such vile hatred to rein ever again.