Today, April 19th, marks the 15th anniversary of the tragic bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building. Last fall, my husband and I visited the Oklahoma City National Memorial (we had flown to Oklahoma City to see a U2 concert in celebration of my 40th birthday). Neither one of us were prepared for the poignancy of that experience.
The memorial stands where the federal building once stood, and encompasses the surrounding area that was ravaged by the attack. Our first trip there was at night, and our eyes were first captured by the illuminated “9:01” engraved in the concrete entrance gate. Beyond the gate, on the left, we heard the sounds of gently flowing water. A pool serenely spans the length of the opening gate and the end gate, which is illuminated “9:03”. The water bridges the heart-wrenching chasm between the innocence of 9:01 and the terror of 9:03. Its tranquility competed with sharper emotions I felt, evoked by images my mind could not set aside – images of rubble, cries, blood, brokenness, and grief that once stood here.
On the right, an eerily lit field of 168 chairs speaks unceasingly of the lives lost that day. Nineteen of these chairs were smaller than the rest. Their voices spoke with softer, higher tones. Children. We left that night solemn, contemplative, impacted.
In the morning, we came back in the daylight, and could better see the fence that guards the edge of the memorial, running parallel to the busy downtown street. It was originally installed to protect the site, and for years collected mementos of mourners. Now, the nearby museum holds most of these tokens in safekeeping, but the fence is still full of items left from recent visitors. These mementos hold various shapes and colors; wreaths, shirts, jewelry, hats, pictures, poems; all communicating the kaleidoscope of human emotions that surround the devastation, even today, fifteen years later. We left our memento in the adjacent children’s area, with chalk, on a chalkboard, next to other expressions of love and grief, “With love, from the Gussos”.
We left the entrance gate, walked across the street, and came upon the site that affected me the most. It was a statue of Jesus; head bowed down with His hand over His face. The stone beneath was engraved with three words: “And Jesus Wept”. As we studied the site it became apparent this was not part of the official memorial; rather, a display on the grounds where the parish house of St. Joseph’s Catholic Church stood prior to the blast. I am grateful that someone anticipated my deep need for this final piece of communication.
You see, the memorial beautifully displays how ashes can morph into beauty, how love transcends all tragedy, and how hope cannot be destroyed by evil. We have been assured that God can make good out of painful circumstances; and that pain finds profound purpose in Him. But we still need to know that He weeps. That His nerves connect with ours, and feel our stabbing pain. That pain is not His wish. Death was not of His design. Just as He rose Lazarus from the dead; and it accomplished great purpose because many were saved because of this miracle that bore witness to His nature, He was still deeply moved by Mary’s sorrow. So, He wept. Two words, one verse; so simply, so strongly states what we need to know. “Jesus wept. (John 11:35 , NASB)”
View pictures of the “And Jesus Wept” memorial at:
http://dcmemorials.com/index_indiv0004101.htm
Official site of the Oklahoma City National Memorial:
http://www.oklahomacitynationalmemorial.org/
No comments:
Post a Comment