Bitterness and Boston

For the past three weeks, I've been proud of my city, Boston, of my home state, Massachusetts. In the face of terror, people ran to help others, instead of running for their own lives. For a day the city was shut down to make sure we could keep it safe.

Right now, however, I'm a little ashamed of this state, for refusing to bury a dead body, for protesting outside the funeral home, for starting a fundraiser with $500 with the intent of raising enough money to ship the body of Tamerlan Tsarnaev back to Russia.

I mean, for goodness' sake, if you have $500 to spare, why not donate it to the One Fund, spend it on helping the victims instead of on perpetuating hate? Supposedly we're outraged because the Tsarnaevs hurt so many... so why not direct funds and energy towards helping those who were hurt, isntead of vengefully lashing out at family members who didn't even know what Tamerlan and Dzhokhar were up to?

Believe me, I understand people not wanting to have Tsarnaev's grave turn into a shrine for like-minded terrorists. And I understand peoples' fear of outrage if he were to be buried in their city. And I understand the need to be sensitive to the victims and their families.

But, we condemn the bombings in Boston because they were acts of hate. But now, aren't we stoking the same hatred, the same bitterness? By screaming and threatening the funeral director and even the Tsarnaev family (who, by all reports, have condemned the bombings), what do we hope to accomplish? What is the message we hope to send? That if you bomb us, we will hate you and bitterly allow your corpse no rest?

How then can we heal?

If we cling to our own swords and weapons and strike back at a dead body, what sort of response to we think we're provoking in other lost young men? Can we claim to be any better than Tamerlan Tsarnaev? Yes, he took his hatred to an extreme, but the same capability for evil, for hatred, lurks within all of us. Even if we aren't taking it to an extreme and physically hurting people, why can't we see the hurt we're inflicting on our state, on our country's reputation? To quote Martin Luther King, Jr's "Letter from a Birmingham Jail": "Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that."

Please understand, I don't wish to sound accusatory or condemning. I have hated people, too, for wrongs they've done to me. I have taken sadistic pleasure in recounting the evils they did to others who listened. But you know what? Whoever said that bitterness is the poison you mix that winds up killing you was right. Because all my anger and hatred accomplished was that it crippled me, kept me afraid and sick and dulled my ability to love.

Boston, we can only heal when we stop hating a dead man, when we instead turn to love, even loving our enemies.

Visiting the Memorial at Copley

I went to visit my sister in Boston on Friday. It may sound morbid, but I really wanted--needed--to visit the memorial in Copley Square.

And so we walked down Boylston Street, a street I've walked countless times. Black boards covered the restaurant where the second bomb went off, which glass-less windows gaped from above the spot of the first explosion.

It felt surreal. I've trod that pavement so many times, and yet now all of the images I'd seen on the news--blood and terror and yet bravery and selflessness--flooded my mind. Prayers flowed inside my mind: Jesus, let Your mercy, Your hope, Your life cover this place. Wash away the darkness. 

And a few hundred feet down was the memorial at Copley. Four white crosses, with the names of each of the victims, stood in the center, and dozens of stuffed animals--an orange cat, a star spangled bear--were placed amid dozens (if not hundreds) of roses and other flowers, some vibrant and beautiful, some past their bloom but still poignant. Signs and notes and well-wishes from all over the country and the world--Belfast, North Carolina, Oahu, Israel--hung from fences, and shiny happy face balloons floated above them. A miniature replica of Michelangelo's "Pieta"--Mary holding the body of a slain Jesus--sat at the base of a tree, symbolic of how God has redeemed mankind's worst evil--slaughtering the son of God--into the greatest good (our redemption).

People milled out, some snapping pictures with their iPhones, some talking and thanking the policemen who stood watch. One man--a Vietnam veteran named Jim--played the the harmonica from his wheelchair, the beautiful, haunting notes of "Amazing Grace" filling the air.

I wanted to pray there, at the memorial, just myself and God, but I couldn't think of anything to say. No words came, but something within me still cried out for beauty to come from these ashes, for love to win over hate, for Jesus to take every evil thing and redeem it, grace to surround the victims and their families, hope and strength and courage and mercy for them in the days and weeks and years to come, and for forgiveness to spring from the hearts of the people of Boston. Forgiveness and mercy even for the 19-year-old suspect.

And Kelley (my sister) and I wound up talking to the harmonica player, Jim, who turned out to be a fellow follower of Jesus. He said he wanted to play his music so that, some way through that, people would know how much God loves them.

And I knew then that God is answering our prayers. Beauty with rise from the terror and ashes and hell of the past few weeks. Love will overcome the evil, life will overcome death--and in Jesus, it already has.

A Must-Read and God's Amazing Love

First of all, waking up to frantic phone calls from my sister on lockdown yesterday was a bit unnerving. And I cannot say thank you enough to the brave law enforcement officers who brought this to an end. May God bless all of you. And I am still praying for the wounded and their families--that God will turn these ashes into beauty.

Secondly, this article is a must read: The Offensive Grace of God & Dzhokhar. 

At first I prayed briefly for the suspects in the bombing, before we knew who they were--you can read that in the piece I wrote on Tuesday. But truthfully, while I wanted them caught alive because I want answers and justice (and still do), I wouldn't have cared very much about them as people. If they died, so be it. And I still felt this way through about half of yesterday as the manhunt and lockdown bore down on Boston... and then, as I prayed, what I knew in my head (but had a hard time comprehending) hit me in my heart, in the very pit of my stomach: I cannot claim to follow Christ and yet forget that Jesus loves this nineteen-year-old boy too, so much that He died for him.

"But I say to you, love your enemies, bless those who curse you, do good to those who hate you, and pray for those who spitefully use you and persecute you" --Jesus, Matt. 5:44.

Jesus loves Dzhokhar Tsarnaev as much as He loves me, and you, and your mother and your pastor and President Obama and Rick Warren and Kim Kardashian and Bill Clinton, much as He loved Martin Luther King, Jr.  and Gandhi, and also Osama bin Laden and even Hitler. Whether we do good or evil--nothing can separate us from Christ's love. 

Jesus would condemn the evil, abominable acts of those like Hitler and bin Laden and Dzhokhar. But you know what? As... unnatural as it feels for us, He loves Dzhokhar Tsarnaev.  He knew and loved Dzhokhar before he was even born. He was whipped and stripped naked and nailed to a cross while thinking about Dzhokhar and you and me, all sinners in need of a Savior.

And I have no doubt what the Tsarnaev brothers did broke His heart. He was there  weeping with the weeping families of those whose loved ones died. He was there, feeling the anguish of the injured and He was with the brave citizens who ran towards the carnage to help. He was with the Boston PD and FBI and everyone who helped capture this man.

He wants to forgive Dzhokhar. And so, I am committing to praying for him as well as for his victims, praying for physical healing and for spiritual healing, for Christ's blood to cover all stains and His love to draw them all to Him.

Rambling Reactions to the Tragedy in My Home City

Disclaimer: forgive the incoherence of this piece. 

My mother's worked in one of Boston's hospital's since before I was born. My brother works there. My sister lives there. I spent countless days there, growing up about 35 minutes south of the city. Up until college, I always had Patriot's Day off from school and watched coverage of the marathon on TV, and my aunt, beloved cousin/mentor, and many friends have run that race and have the medals hanging in their room.

So when I found four missed phone calls from my father and mother yesterday, and answered a fifth call to hear that bombs were going off, I started shaking all over. My mother's hospital was on lock-down and disaster alert as they brought rushed of the wounded there. My sister lives pretty close the site of the attacks, and I spent ten minutes frantically trying to reach her. Thank God, she was working in her chemistry lab when the attacks happened. Her roommate, another friend of mine, was on her way to Newbury Street, and the only reason she wasn't there at the time of the attacks was that she stopped for lunch.

I cried, head in my trembling hands, for the images I saw on the news and for the people suffering. I'm so relieved my loved ones are safe, but what of those whose loved ones are dead or missing limbs or traumatized from the carnage they saw?

I couldn't even muster up any eloquent words to pray. All I could do was keep repeating, "Jesus, Lord, have mercy."

The tragedy is, bombings like this happen all over the world on a daily basis. Israel, Pakistan, Afghanistan. It happened in Hyderabad, a city I've been to in India, in February. And while I might murmur a quick prayer, I  haven't been as devastated as I was yesterday. And that's understandable, I think, because this is close to my home. But God loves the innocent people killed in Jerusalem, Baghdad, Karachi, Hyderabad just as much as those in Boston. All of this senseless violence breaks His heart. All tragedies, really, man-made or not.

I woke up this morning and saw the news of the earthquake in Iran and Pakistan. Now I find myself whispering, "Come, Lord Jesus." There is so much suffering that we cannot make sense of.  I don't know if we're supposed to even try.

I do know that Jesus is faithful, and God keeps His promises. So, please, Jesus, redeem even the worst tragedies, transform the truly evil events that shatter us as people into hope. And that's already happening, because for as many of the awful news stories I've read, I've also seen stories of people running towards the bomb site instead of away, comforting the wounded, nurses at my mother's hospital who, though they were off duty at three, stayed and went to the emergency room to help in any way they could.

And I find little flickers of Christ-like love and selfless care in those stories. I believe that Jesus was there when those bombs went off, holding people;'s hands and weeping with the suffering souls whom He loves, because He knows what brutal violence feels like. And whomever set off that bomb, He loves them too, and is longing to forgive them even as they will hopefully be brought to justice. Maybe He even whispered,  "Forgive them Father, for they know not what they do."

2 is Pink. And 2 is Girlish, Shy, and Sweet.

During the first semester of my freshman year of college, I took a class in which we read Vladimir Nabokov's Invitation to a Beheading (I don't particularly recommend it), and I did some research on Nabokov himself. One sentence stood out to me/; "Nabokov was himself a synesthete..."

I had no idea what that meant, so I clicked on it, and read a description of synesthesia. Essentially it's the overlapping of sense in the brain--for example, one might be able to taste different notes in music, or see letters/numbers in color, etc.

But I was confused in that moment. I turned to my roommate and burst out with what I was reading, ending by saying "But isn't that normal for everyone?"

Her blue eyes wide, she slowly shook her head. "Uh... no."

I always thought synesthesia was completely normal, a universal human experience. I'd even discussed it with my identical twin sister, who also has it. We would joke about the fact that to me, A is a red letter, but to her A is green. I yanked out my cell phone and texted her. She, too, was stunned to find out it wasn't normal.

That's not to say synesthesia is a disorder. It's not. It's just a different way that the brain processes.

My synesthesia is "color-grapheme" synesthesia: I see letters and numbers as being associated with certain colors. I mean, as I'm typing this, I know the lettering is black, I can see that--but the "l" in "lettering" is green, the "e" is yellow, etc.

I also have some sort of spacial synesthesia, as does my twin: I see the months of the year and the days of the week laid out in a precious map around me.

And here's the part where my twin and I differ: she associates sounds (like people's voices, for example) with certain colors and such. I don't. However, I also see numbers as having personalities. Really, I'm not crazy--I don't think they're people or talking to me or anything like that! But 2 is pink. And also, 2 is girly, shy, and sweet. 1 is black, and a businessman/professor who always dresses in suits, has a dry sense of humor (though he doesn't laugh a lot), and is a workaholic. 3 is yellow, and fun and hyper, but immature, and yet kind of cute in a childlike way--3's the type of person who would jump up and down and scream/squeal and clap their hands every two seconds.

It also carries over into other alphabets. I can read my name in Telugu, and the colors are much the same as
"Kate" would be in the English alphabet.

Synesthetes are generally prone to have a horrible sense of direction. Considering the fact that I get lost at least once the first time I try to find a place, I'm not surprised by this. They also often have great difficulty telling right from left (I still extend my index finger and thumb to see which hand makes the "L"), and are often skilled artistically, musically, or with writing. There's some evidence it may be genetic (which would explain the fact that my twin is also a synesthete).

Anyways, do you know anyone who has synesthesia? Have you ever heard of it before? I'd love to hear from you if you or anyone you know is a synesthete!

Learning to Be Broken

When I was fourteen, three weeks into high school, my beloved grandfather died, my father wound up having emergency surgery, and I got diagnosed with a brain lesion (that turned out not to be cancerous, thank God). All in one week.

When I came out of that week, I felt dazed. Life got more stressful, with piles of schoolwork and my own perfectionism, and with the aftermath of pain someone had caused me. I felt isolated, scared, and I wanted help. So I turned to the place I thought was filled with people who would care: the church.

There was someone I respected, trusted and thought would care. I was still too scared to confess exactly what was happening, but I knew I was depressed and I wanted someone to help me. This person always said, whenever I saw them, seemingly with genuine interest, "Hi Kate, how are you?"

And I decided to be honest and confide, "Not so great."

The first time, they shrugged it off and said, "Well, I hope things get better."

The second time I gave an answer along those lines, they chuckled and said, "But you said that yesterday!"

The third time, they retorted sarcastically, "Kate, why don't you ever consider anything good?"

Crushed, I slunk away. Five minutes later, my nose began bleeding (it's hereditary and I get them all the time), and I let the blood just drain out of me, running down my face, pouring down my shirt because I deserved it. I was unlikable. It was all me, and that's why the person I referenced earlier hurt me--because I wasn't worth loving. It was my fault, all my fault.

I just wanted someone to tell me they cared, and it was okay to hurt, and to pray with me and tell me again that Jesus was there, and He cared.

Instead, I closed myself off. I focused on triumphing via straight A's an a perfect GPA in school--because if I succeeded, I might be likable.I felt the need to appear invincible. Call it pride if you like; you're probably right.

I couldn't be vulnerable. I couldn't admit where I was failing and I couldn't ask for help anymore--especially not in the church. It was perfectly acceptable to ask for prayer for a relative who didn't know Jesus, but when I wanted to know where Jesus was myself, I couldn't ask. I was afraid of the condemning stares, the whispers.

My cousin, Meg, reached out, as did a pastor I had for a Bible teacher in high school, and slowly, through their word of wisdom and Jesus-like kindness, my bitter armor chipped off, piece by painful piece.

I still struggle with keeping up appearances. I want to pretend everything's okay. I don't want to inconvenience people (people pleaser much?)

So as I'm battling through some stressful things in life right now, someone told me that they asked their friends in church to pray for me. And I was like: "What? Don't tell them that!"

But I need people to know. I need to feel the church's arms, as the body of Christ, holding me up when my legs shake and I can't stand. And I need to support others when they stagger in, battered and wounded.

Because we're not okay. No human really is. We each battle with sins and bruises and on occasion, gaping wounds.

We're all broken.

Why should we condemn each other? When they ask where Jesus is, why don't we hold them and whisper, "Right here?" Why don't we listen to each other's cries for help? Why aren't we living Christ's love?

Jesus holds us together. We're all broken and we all know it. There's no shame in being broken. Our scars tell a story, a story that has a good ending.

So, I'm broken. And so are you. And it's okay, because Jesus is working all the pieces together into something good, something beautiful.

Busy? Um, Yes, That Would Be Me

So... I haven't been particularly attentive to my blog as of late. And, sadly, that may continue for the next few months.

Why?

Well, I'm graduating next semester. And that means I'm overloaded in classes right now (three of which are English/writing heavy classes. It's like heaven since I legitimately adore all three of the classes, but it also makes life somewhat hellish in that it's completely burning me out). Basically, when I get a spare minute, I want to do something completely brain-numbing, like gorge myself on episodes of Psych on Hulu.

Also, I'm returning to India this summer! I'm so excited and feel so blessed--I cannot wait to hug Manasa, Sagar, Manudeep, Ratna, Sandeep, Roboman, Williams, and the rest. In the meantime, though, there's fundraising and flight plans and visa applications (oy!) to wade through.

All that to say, I may be very quiet on this blog for the next few months. Then again, who knows? I may find a late night under-the-influence-of-chocolate urge to write/inspiration (which is totally not me now... ahem).

Anyways, be patient with me if you please, and if you think of it, pray for me? I need to gird up and start battling through another paper. And then another. And another. And another...