RIP Harambe... Everyone else, take a breath.

Was it a tragedy that a beautiful, majestic animal was shot and killed?  Indeed it was.  It was doubly tragic because the animal was of a highly endangered species.  Was it horrible that the people who have worked with this animal on a daily basis were forced to kill him resulting from a situation that probably never should have happened in the first place?  Absolutely.  That being said, I have but one thing to say in the midst of the tsunami of emotion this event has caused.  Breathe, everybody.  Just BREATHE.

I am astounded by the hatred and vitriol that are being hurled by a judgmental public at a woman who has just gone through what I am sure was one of the most heart-stoppingly terrifying moments in her life.  A 400-lb. brute of a beast was dragging her CHILD underwater,  with his head bouncing along the bottom of a concrete moat!  It was NOT playing with or protecting the little boy.  It was hauling him around and crouching over him, which many wild animals do just before they kill their prey.  Thank God that the zoo officials took action as swiftly as they did in order to save the child’s life.  It wasn’t a matter of making the “right” choice.  In this situation, THEY HAD NO CHOICE!

Now, I can feel the rush of righteous indignation rising up against me as I say these words.  And I have to admit, when faced with the question, “Shouldn’t this mother have been keeping a better watch on her child?”, my initial response was a resounding, “YES!”.  But memories of some of my own motherhood moments started creeping in and changed my response to, “Probably”.  And after more memories and more thought, I would have to say the best answer I can now give to that question is, “Maybe”.

We were not there.  We did not see what happened from beginning to end.  There is no way we can judge the mother and say that she is a bad parent because she wasn’t paying attention.  We live in a world that is rife with distractions.  Sometimes things get past us, even when we are sure that we are paying close attention.  When my younger son was four, he was absolutely fearless and would climb on or over any place he could get a toe-hold.  And he was FAST!  One second I could have him firmly by the hand and before I could blink, he would break loose and be on top of something, smiling and saying, “Look at me, Mommy!”  Just because the little boy got away from her doesn’t mean the mother wasn’t paying attention.  I am sure that nothing anyone can say to or about her could possibly be worse than what she is saying to herself.  And, in the midst of this terrifying situation, what did this mother do?  Instead of carrying on and having a screaming melt-down (which many of the onlookers were doing and clearly, exacerbating the animal’s agitation), she was speaking calmly to her son.  She called his name and told him to be calm.  She said, over and over, “Mommy is right here.  I am not going to leave you.  I am here, and I love you.”  She must have been thinking that it would be the last time her child would hear her voice, but she did all she could to remind him that he was not alone and that he was loved.  That, in my humble opinion, is not an example of being a bad mother.

So now, instead of being able to recover from this horrifying event, this family has to worry about being arrested, having their children taken away from them, and even bodily harm, all because a large portion of the public, in their uninformed fury, are calling for vengeance over the death of an ANIMAL.  And I have to wonder why none of this indignant, retribution-seeking public seems to be willing to stand up for the babies that are killed on a daily basis in our country’s abortion clinics.  The rights of a 400-lb. wild beast are more important than the rights of unborn human children.  I can only shake my head.

In closing, I would like to relate an event that occurred when my older son was little.  He was a toddler, just beginning to be able to go places and do things on his own.  One day, my parents came up for a visit.  In all of the hugging, kissing and welcoming when they arrived, no one noticed that the front door didn’t close completely.  My Daddy sat down in the living room and I took my Mama back into my bedroom to show her something.  I, mistakenly, thought my Daddy was keeping an eye on my son.  My Daddy, mistakenly, thought my son had gone back into the bedroom with me.  In actuality, my son had pulled open the front door and toddled down the front steps, probably reveling in his new-found freedom.  When I came back into the living room, imagine my panic when I saw only my Daddy and the front door standing open.  I cannot accurately discribe the feeling of absolute despair I felt as I flew out the front door screaming my son’s name.  We lived at the corner of a very busy road and our yard was not fenced.  I found my son around the side of the house, smiling and happy to be outside.  That happened almost 24 years ago and the memory of that day still makes my throat close up and my stomach hurt.

Now, could the results of that day have been horrible and heart-breaking?  Absolutely it could.  Was I a bad parent that day?  I don’t think so.  Should my Daddy and I have been arrested for not keeping a closer watch on my child?  No, absolutely not.  Should I have had my child taken away from me due to my negligence?  NO. BECAUSE IT WAS AN ACCIDENT. 

It is easy to judge someone else when you don’t have all the facts.  But to use that judgment to hurl hate at someone you’ve never met, even to the point of calling for her arrest, injury and death is just SHAMEFUL.  Y’all, please take a breath and give this poor mama a break.  She made a mistake.  We all make mistakes.  Her mistake and its results are just more public than ours.  How fortunate we are that our Father forgives us when we make mistakes.  We should do the same.        

   

  

His Daddy's Hammer

 My younger son, Benjamin, was only seven (well, almost seven…actually still six) when Ken was diagnosed with terminal cancer.  In the span on one short week, he went from having a Daddy who would play and ride bikes with him, take him camping at the local flea market, and let him ride in the bucket of the backhoe (only when Mama wasn’t looking) to having to watch his Daddy fight for his life and wither away from a horrible disease.  It was a HUGELY scary adult thing for such an innocent and carefree little boy to try to endure.  It changed him… immediately and tremendously.

When someone in a family, whether a parent, grandparent or child, is diagnosed with a terminal illness, that family’s entire world immediately changes.  Emotions are heightened, schedules are changed, the phone rings incessantly, hospital stays, doctor appointments, treatments, medications and medical equipment become a part of the “normal” routine.  The family’s vocabulary even changes – they suddenly have to become fluent in medical terminology and the language of diagnosis and prognosis (it really is a language all its own … you have to listen for what the doctors DON’T say in order to interpret fully what they do say).

This is the world my tiny, dimple-faced boy and his brother were thrown into.  I was so busy managing Ken’s healthcare and helping him fight that Jesse and Benjamin were often pushed aside.  We were tremendously blessed with family and friends who tried to “pick up the slack” and help us with the boys, but it’s not the same thing as being comforted by your parents.  I soon noticed a marked change in Benjamin’s behavior.  He stopped talking and interacting with people and he began to deal with stress through physical movement.  He would run up and down the hallways, spin ‘round and ‘round in a circle in the floor, climb anything climb-able (and usually jump off).  I came into his classroom one day and he was reading his assignment, sitting in his chair, which was UP ON TOP OF HIS DESK!!  My initial reaction was to snatch him down and fuss at him, but his second-grade teacher, a dear, kind, compassionate, grandmotherly woman, shook her head slightly and continued their lesson.  When she finished, she came over and told me that she didn’t care if Benjamin sat on top of his desk, or stood on his head in the aisle… as long as he was listening, he could do whatever he needed to do to relieve his stress.  That teacher was an angel sent from God to help my child through that terrible time in his life.

Ken fought hard for two years.  Benjamin’s level of physical activity grew to a fever pitch.  It got so bad that Ken would snap at him about it.  He couldn’t help it… he was in such pain at the end.  Before his illness, Ken would never have been harsh with either of our boys.  But cancer makes you do things that aren’t in your nature.  Benjamin began to avoid Ken.  He would stay in his room or stay outside if his Daddy was awake.  It broke my heart then, and it still breaks my heart now, when I remember.

After Ken died, Benjamin would rarely talk about his Daddy.  I think, in his own way, he was trying to protect me.  If he didn’t talk about it, maybe I wouldn’t cry so much.  As the years passed by, I began to wonder if Benjamin really remembered his Daddy at all.  He was such a baby when it was happening.  I know that I don’t remember much from the time I was six or seven.  And the whole two years was so sad and stressful.  Who could blame him for not wanting to remember?  When he was younger, I would ask him if he remembered things that happened before Ken got sick.  He always said “yes”, but I wondered if they were just borrowed memories – you know, things you think you remember, but it’s only because you have heard other people talk about them.  But I figured that borrowed memories are better than no memories.

Now that Benjamin is grown, he has finally admitted to me that he has little to no actual memory of his Daddy, and my heart hurts for him.  But he has begun to talk more about him.  He has taken to wearing a beanie (toboggan) that was Ken’s.  He is built so much like Ken and his mannerisms are the same, so when he wears the beanie, though it makes me smile, it sometimes takes my breath away. 

Yesterday, Benjamin came to me, holding one of Ken’s hammers and asked me if he could have it.  He works in construction, so I asked him if he had lost his hammer.  He said “no”, but he would still like to have Ken’s hammer.  I said, “But Baby, that’s your Daddy’s hammer.  He used it… touched it with his hands.”  Benjamin said, “I know… that’s why I want it.”  I can’t really explain how it felt, seeing my son holding his Daddy’s hammer, and knowing that he wanted it to help him remember.  I pray that when he uses it, he will feel his Daddy’s strength, his determination, and the love his Daddy had for his family.  Ken would have wanted him to have it.