What's A Life Worth?
The line stretched out the door and snaked down the sidewalk. Person after person standing in the cold January air to pay their respects to a woman who's physical life came to an abrupt halt.
The town felt comfortable to me as I shook hands with people who I hadn't seen in quite some time. The faces looked worn, there was a considerable limp to the gathering as our eyes darted down and away, scared to say how lousy we felt for a strong family who's members we'd known since we were children.
I thought about the fact that there is a great debate going on in our nation as people speak of their rights to have and hold their guns. That's an argument for someone else, I'm done with it, but what captures me now is the thought of death, and how every single digit in the accounting of who died from what comes with a story.
"The stats are wrong," someone texted me. "There aren't 30,000 deaths from gun violence. There are 'only' 17,000."
In the context of standing on line to pay my respects, the 'only' 17,000 was lost on me.
My mind shifted to that little town in Connecticut and the endless parade of wakes and verses of 'Amazing Grace'.
And I spoke a lot and wrote a lot about life being a gift and that it is meant to be lived with the tears, the smiles, and the work, and the play, and the filling of empty spaces with moments of love. The full catastrophe of it all. But mostly, I was feeling love.
Just love.
We forget the love when we throw out a statement like:
"More people die in car accidents; shall we ban cars."
We forget the gift when we mention that the majority of those shootings are inner-city, gang kids.
As if their lives are disposable.
We forget our faith when we pass judgment on folks who are looking for assistance to survive.
We chase away thoughts of compassion when we talk about the 'worthless' people who are trying to cross the border to find opportunity.
And I realize that my heart bleeds for others and that I take a lot of flack for it from folks who don't quite get feeling pain for someone that they might consider not worthy.
Life is a gift, but it is not just a gift for you. It's a gift for all of us. It's a gift that doesn't make mention of how much money is earned, or how smart one fancies themselves to be.
It's just a gift, and we are all entitled to share in it, and we shouldn't decide who's gift ends when or why. None of us are truly quite as disposable as one might think.
I got back into my car and made all the small turns around the neighborhoods of my small hometown. I crossed the street where I was tossed from my bike with my buddy Jeff following close behind. We could've been killed right there.
I drove past the spot where the shortstop for my softball team DID lose his life. I eased past my buddy Al's childhood home. I thought of his Mom and Dad, and how hard I cried at their funerals.
I felt warmed and comforted in the arms of that little town on a dark, unseasonably warm night.
"What took you so long?" my son chided me when I returned home.
"There were a lot of people there," I said.
"There aren't a lot of people in the whole town!" he said.
"But they all feel it," I said. "They all appreciate the pain. They all show up because they know life is tough. They show their love."
So as we discuss all the issues that confront us on the streets of a whole bunch of small towns I pray that we remember:
Every life is a gift.
Every one of those numbers means something to hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of people.
Perhaps when we value one another...
Perhaps when we value one another.
The town felt comfortable to me as I shook hands with people who I hadn't seen in quite some time. The faces looked worn, there was a considerable limp to the gathering as our eyes darted down and away, scared to say how lousy we felt for a strong family who's members we'd known since we were children.
I thought about the fact that there is a great debate going on in our nation as people speak of their rights to have and hold their guns. That's an argument for someone else, I'm done with it, but what captures me now is the thought of death, and how every single digit in the accounting of who died from what comes with a story.
"The stats are wrong," someone texted me. "There aren't 30,000 deaths from gun violence. There are 'only' 17,000."
In the context of standing on line to pay my respects, the 'only' 17,000 was lost on me.
My mind shifted to that little town in Connecticut and the endless parade of wakes and verses of 'Amazing Grace'.
And I spoke a lot and wrote a lot about life being a gift and that it is meant to be lived with the tears, the smiles, and the work, and the play, and the filling of empty spaces with moments of love. The full catastrophe of it all. But mostly, I was feeling love.
Just love.
We forget the love when we throw out a statement like:
"More people die in car accidents; shall we ban cars."
We forget the gift when we mention that the majority of those shootings are inner-city, gang kids.
As if their lives are disposable.
We forget our faith when we pass judgment on folks who are looking for assistance to survive.
We chase away thoughts of compassion when we talk about the 'worthless' people who are trying to cross the border to find opportunity.
And I realize that my heart bleeds for others and that I take a lot of flack for it from folks who don't quite get feeling pain for someone that they might consider not worthy.
Life is a gift, but it is not just a gift for you. It's a gift for all of us. It's a gift that doesn't make mention of how much money is earned, or how smart one fancies themselves to be.
It's just a gift, and we are all entitled to share in it, and we shouldn't decide who's gift ends when or why. None of us are truly quite as disposable as one might think.
I got back into my car and made all the small turns around the neighborhoods of my small hometown. I crossed the street where I was tossed from my bike with my buddy Jeff following close behind. We could've been killed right there.
I drove past the spot where the shortstop for my softball team DID lose his life. I eased past my buddy Al's childhood home. I thought of his Mom and Dad, and how hard I cried at their funerals.
I felt warmed and comforted in the arms of that little town on a dark, unseasonably warm night.
"What took you so long?" my son chided me when I returned home.
"There were a lot of people there," I said.
"There aren't a lot of people in the whole town!" he said.
"But they all feel it," I said. "They all appreciate the pain. They all show up because they know life is tough. They show their love."
So as we discuss all the issues that confront us on the streets of a whole bunch of small towns I pray that we remember:
Every life is a gift.
Every one of those numbers means something to hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of people.
Perhaps when we value one another...
Perhaps when we value one another.
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