For the Broken Hearts in Denver, Aurora, and the Sphere that Surrounds

Some have written to me today, asking me to write in response to the senseless, horrific shooting that took place at the Aurora Town Center movie theater last night.  The theater is about ten minutes from my church, and it seems that everyone around me knows someone who knows someone who is hurting, afraid, dealing with loss and trauma today.

To you that have lost someone you love, my heart aches with wordlessness for you.

To you who are caring for those who hurt, bleed, ache, and fear, I say thank you.

To all of us who are helpless but want to help, wordless but want to speak, and stumbling over our own questions and unanswers, I give you the following paragraphs (previously published on my blog and in 5280 magazine).

We walk alongside broken hearts.
I belong to a third culture. I am neither a whole, healed woman, nor will
I wear black and grieve forever. I belong in this nebulous, in-between
place.

We are a growing demographic, the broken-hearted us. You might
belong on this team roster, or perhaps you are walking alongside
someone who is. If you are wondering how to help someone in this
place, let me tell you what I’ve learned.

If you don’t know what to say, simply say, “I’m so sorry.” Or even
better, “I am so sad for you.” Don’t try to explain or offer a lofty word.
There is no explanation, so free yourself from trying to find one.

When you ask how we are, we may say, “Fine, thank you,” or “We are
doing okay.” Try with all your might not to press further. The pleading
eyes or the prodding voice that says, “Really? Come on, really? How are
you, really?” We can’t answer that question. It is all I can do to speak. I
answered you. Puncture this surface, and I might spill everywhere.

I, personally, have needed acknowledgement that nothing was normal
anymore; that everything has changed for me. I have needed a “free
pass” from anything and everything on anyone’s calendar. I have not
been able to step into what was, sit at a table where Robb would have
been, attend a party where he would have been a guest.

It’s natural for anyone who has gone through this to want to proceed
with “life as normal.” We may not want a public display of any kind.
Perhaps the best thing you can do is to be present and patient. When—
and if—we are ready to begin the journey of uncovering the tragedy, we
may remember you were one who was present and patient. And we may
trust you.

This journey brings along a monster named Burden. He whispers dark
secrets that make us think we’re exhausting you and your resources. If
you can give without waiting for a wish list, you can slay that dragon for
us. We may not know what we need, but we usually know what we don’t want. Respect the word “no.”

There is a difference between wanting to give to us and wanting to give
for you. The motives are thinly veiled, and there is grace and space for
both. Try to know why you want to help. Is it because you know this
family well, you see a need, and you can fill it? Or is it because you feel
overwhelming compassion—perhaps even a sense of guilt that your life
hasn’t fallen to pieces—and you simply must-must-must respond in a
tangible way?

If you are giving for us, then just do. Step in. Don’t wait. It will mean the
world.

If you are giving for you, then give in a spacious way: gift cards, notes,
surprise gifts. It will mean the world.

If you are one of us, stuck in the in-between, third culture of grief, please
let me tell you what I have learned. The rules have changed.

If you are hurting, if you need help, say it. Others don’t know what you
need, but so many want to help. If you know what you need, say it. And
if you know what you don’t want, say it. Be honest, and don’t let pride
exhaust you. Save that energy for getting out of bed in the morning.

Be alone as long as you want, as much as you want. Isolation is normal,
I have definitely learned. In other centuries and cultures, those with a
broken heart and a ruptured world have been sent to live in seclusion for
as long as they needed. Allow yourself the freedom to clear the calendar,
to say no, to be alone.

Check your mailbox. And on the day the mailbox is empty, don’t be
deceived: It doesn’t mean the world has forgotten about you or the one
you love.

Give yourself a break on the thank-you notes. All the rules are different
now, even the formalities of courtesy.

You can’t always predict an emotional toll. What you fear with all your
heart may come more easily than you expected. What you thought you
could conquer may bring you to your knees. Go easy on yourself. Go to
a party if you want, and leave five minutes later if you must. If laughter
finds you, pull up a chair and invite her to stay. Don’t worry about what
others might think—tell them you’re taking the day off from sadness.

God is good and antidepressants aren’t bad. Get help.

 

Today, I grieve for my city, a sea of faces, families, homes, and brokenness.

May we love you well.

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6 thoughts on “For the Broken Hearts in Denver, Aurora, and the Sphere that Surrounds

  1. Thank you. You said it perfectly, again. My friend was in theater 8; I’m so thankful she’s okay. My heart is so broken by the tragedy of it all.

  2. Meg Carr is my dear friend and through her I started reading your blog every day and have for a several years now. I am 31 years old with a 19 month daughter and 3 week old son and my mom just passed away this morning from cancer. Thank you for posting what you had wrote previously…God knew I needed to read this today. It means something totally different now then when I read it before.

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