I was pregnant when the attacks of October 7th happened; postpartum one year later; and am pregnant once more on this two-year anniversary. That is to say, I’ve been more emotional on these occasions than usual, although the horrific slaughter of innocents is a lot for anyone to process.
But the faces of the two Bibas boys in particular have haunted me – maybe because the youngest one, only 8 months old at the time of his capture, wasn’t much older than my little girl. I ugly-cried for days when I found out what happened to them, and their mother.
I think of the husband and father, the only survivor of the family, and wonder how on earth he manages to function. If anything like that ever happened to my children, to my husband, my first thought is…I don’t know how I’d ever recover.
These thoughts are contrasted with Erika Kirk, wife of slain political commentator Charlie Kirk, publicly forgiving the man who shot her husband, within the week that it happened. It’s astounding, and hard to wrap my head around. The emotional weight of these two events is too much to comprehend at once.
How do God’s promises of redemption make any sense in light of this violence that seems so senseless to us? When human willpower to simply get out of bed each morning fails, does God really carry us the rest of the way?
I wonder frequently if I have been able to face hardships in my own life with hope and perseverance not because I truly trust in the Lord, but because my SSRI works wonders. These two things are not incompatible or mutually exclusive, but still. Take one away, and what would I be? I’m scared to find out the answer.
I can only hope that the foundation I am setting now, with daily prayer and scripture reading, is shaping me to endure the unspeakable. It doesn’t seem like it’s doing much right now, especially since “quiet time” is punctuated by the sounds of children’s toys and toddler babble. I’ve found slices of cheese and goldfish crumbs in my Bible. The rhythm of the rosary is interrupted by the unmistakable smell of a full diaper.
Is there really anything happening here, despite my divided concentration? Is any foundation being laid at all?
It’s the sorrowful mysteries in particular that captivate my attention despite all the interruptions. The rosary asks us to contemplate the events of Jesus’ life – his suffering, in this case – through the lens of his mother. The scourging, the carrying of the cross, his eventual death…it’s unspeakable agony for any parent. In this stage of my life, when my children are so tiny and fragile, I can barely handle it.
And yet, I am reminded that nothing goes unseen. There is no form of suffering our savior doesn’t know, and this is the reason I trust him. He is not far off in the distance on a cushy throne, cut off from the groans of creation. No, he is actively present among us, and we participate in his suffering, through time and space, through the Eucharist.
It’s hard to take in and appreciate fully in this busy season of wiggly toddlers. But I have to trust that even this distracted devotion to the holy mysteries is forming me and building me up to endure the unthinkable.
Photo by NOOR HOSSAIN on Unsplash
