CHAPTER 16
Despite my promise to myself to write for at least an hour or so each morning, I have taken quite a lengthy retreat from the project. It has been at least a month, maybe more. I told myself it was because I had “real” work to do and bills to pay. All good, responsible reasons, I guess, but excuses nonetheless. Just like the person who says they have absolutely no time to exercise but manages to spend at least an hour zoning out in front of the television. I know. I’ve done that too. I have since come to believe that it is the thing that keeps gnawing at us, that keeps quietly or not so quietly nudging us to move forward that is actually the more “responsible” thing to do. How else can we truly attend to the other pressing matters about us if we have not honored and cared for the one thing we are given at birth to oversee and direct – our own lives?
Enough philosophizing. After just one paragraph, I have realized just how difficult it can be to pick up momentum once it is lost. How quickly the old walls go up and confidence retreats. Did this really seem like such an important and worthy goal a month ago? Why then does it now seem so pointless and irrelevant? Here come the old refrains of, “Do I really have anything important to say?” and “Who cares anyway?’’ So again, I must quiet the voices in my head and get to it. My soul will not rest until I do. That may sound melodramatic, but it’s not melodramatic if it’s true. I have learned to have great respect for that restless soul. It always tells me what I need to hear and what I need to do.
The embarrassing truth is, I am not sure where this little narrative needs to go next. Another danger of stopping mid-stream. I know myself well enough to know that I probably stopped because I reached a point of difficulty. Lousy to admit but true. I love a challenge when I am perfectly capable of handling it. A challenge that truly, well, challenges me? Not quite as enjoyable. So what was it that sent me running? My little collection of dutiful readers who have been awaiting their next installment could probably write the next sentence themselves. Something to do with the little girl whose death started this whole ball rolling. That much is certain. Beyond that, I’m unclear. Amazing how quickly the brain can wrap up into tidy little packages the messy memories it no longer wishes to grapple with.
Perhaps I can reenter the place I stopped by reflecting on what has happened since. Yet another child has died a sad and horrible death. Her name was Jocelyn. Jocelyn Lawson. Same age as Sara. Similar circumstances. Same cruel fate. And once again, the cries of “How could this happen?” and “Something must be done” can be heard everywhere. Which leads me to wonder, why do we only cry for our children’s protection when we bury one? Where is the outrage at the horrors endured daily by children all over the country and the world? I don’t claim to have the answers but whatever they are, they have to be present among us all the time, not only in the aftermath of a tragedy. And if I read one more detail of the killer's Jocelyn Lawson's life? That is what interests me. What kind of person was she destined to be? The world will never know. How many more 9-year-old girls will be taken from their beds and murdered before we stand up for those who still live?
Perhaps that is partly why I feel compelled to speak. No one can speak for Sara, for Jocelyn, for the others like them. But I can speak for the child I was. And I can listen to the children who are in my world. Maybe it is about time we listened to all the children in our lives – before their voices, too, are silenced.
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TITLE: This Is Me CHAPTER:
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AUTHOR: Anonymous