At a certain point in my early 30s – shortly after I had
gotten divorced and came out from the self-absorbed haze of “why me” – I had a
turning point when instead of saying “Why me?” I started saying, “what is the
lesson here?”
I witnessed a taxi accident a few years ago, walking down
the streets of Third Avenue in New York. With the bustle and hustle of rush
hour, it was not uncommon to hear a car screeching or the familiar bang of
metal colliding. Most of the time the slow traffic prevented horrific automobile
accidents. But on this warm spring day, I turned my head after I heard a crash
and watched as a 20-something girl jumped out of a cab, apparently in a
complete state of shock, all while holding her bloody nose from falling off her
face. “What just happened? Can someone please just tell me what just happened
to me?”
I felt so badly for this confused and bruised young woman.
She seemed to be on a first date, because a young man, not overly attentive to
this clearly distraught woman, began to run around to the car in front of the
taxi and try to figure out what caused the accident. I just watched this
unpleasant scene, thinking, “What was the point of me witnessing this
accident?”
I wondered about why was I meant to see this? What was my
lesson?
From that day on, I wore a seatbelt in the back seat of
every car, including taxis. Perhaps this was a simple lesson; perhaps it was one
that will save my face one day.
But it seems to help me to say, “What is the lesson here?
What can I take away from this to make my life better? What was the point?”
What are the lessons for a nation that witnessed a small
town’s tragedy and sits breathless, powerless, helpless at home? After the fog
of grief wears off; after that rotting feeling in your stomach and the
perpetual lump in your throat goes away; after you’ve cried so many tears that
you can’t believe it’s still getting to you – because these weren’t even YOUR
children. What is the lesson here?
We can start up the talks about gun control and mental
illness and even parental responsibility and accountability. We can make it
political or religious or all things in one. We can go off on rants and we can
be angry and we can be frustrated.
But that won’t change my life. Not my personal little life.
Nope. I cannot change gun laws; I cannot help all the parents in the world with
sick children. I can only help myself recognize there was a reason this event
pierced my heart.
When, in a memorial service, President Obama said, “Newtown
has reminded us of the most important things in life,” the lesson seemed
blatantly clear.
I didn’t care about the laundry overflowing out of the
hamper or about the dishes that needed to be loaded into the dishwasher. I
didn’t care about the gray hairs that have covered my temples or the holiday
cards that we decided to abandon because our standards were just too high. I
didn’t care that my cell phone bill was late again or that I still didn’t file
my taxes. I didn’t care about petty fights with the family and I certainly
didn’t care about what any one else ever thought about my choices again. That
was all just distraction from the real stuff.
I only cared about holding my children. I cared about
kissing them and kissing them some more until they were pushing me away and
wiping their faces off. I cared about hugging them so tight, like I could wrap
my arms around them twice and if I squeezed any harder, I’d pop their ribs. I
cared about tucking them in at night so cozy that I could climb right in bed
with both of them and never leave. I cared about touching every little part of
their bodies, savoring every delicious morsel of their silky skin. I cared
about breathing in their delicious smells, filling up my lungs for all eternity
so I would never forget their perfume of pure love.
I only cared about holding them and protecting them the way
I had in the first nine months of their lives. Because once they’re born,
they’re so much harder to protect.
When my son was born, it was like the mysterious question
mark of WHY on this earth became clear. Our children are the answer to the why
and the because. When their hearts start beating outside your body, your own
heart will beat to an entirely new rhythm; a rhythm with purpose.
I don’t want to win the lottery; I don’t want that
million-dollar apartment; I don’t even want that dream job that only exists in a
hypothetical world. I only want the dream life I have right now. The one where
my children are healthy and safe and comforted by the grasp of my arms around
them. The one where I can dance around the living room in pajamas, holding
their little palms in mine and then tuck them in at night. I want the life
where I can watch my children open their holiday presents and I can hear them
tell me I love you, sounding no less sweet the hundredth time that it did the
first.
I want to hit pause on my life RIGHT NOW. Because today I am
one of the very lucky ones and I don’t want to take one second for granted.
This tragedy will forever remind me that as long as I can
tuck my children in at night, all is good. The rest is just background noise.
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