Remembering the Heath High School shooting

Like everyone else who was in the Paducah area (and later around the world), I remember very vividly where I was the moment I heard the Breaking News “Students at Heath High School were gathered for a Prayer Group when another student pointed a gun at them and started shooting.  We will continue to bring you more news as we know it.”  Those are probably not the exact words, but very close to what I remember from the car radio that morning as I was driving with my 2-month-old granddaughter to visit my mother for the day. 

The rest of the day I kept checking the news.  By the end of the day, the news was that a 14-year-old boy had killed three precious girls, paralyzed one girl for the rest of her life, and four others had to struggle with healing from gunshot wounds.  So many lives were changed that day.  Hopes and dreams were demolished or drastically revised.  The families have moved on but have been changed forever.

For me, each time I looked at my precious granddaughter that day I would think “Thank God you don’t understand what is happening, and I pray that you never have to experience something like this.”  Sadly, similar tragedies, and even some on a larger scale, have continued to happen across our nation and world over the last 20 years.  

As I sat watching the Memorial Service being televised on the WPSD this morning, I have flashed back in my mind to that day and the days, weeks, and months following.  The news media flooded the little community of Heath in Western McCracken County, KY.  Our area was in the headlines for days.  President Bill Clinton spoke of it nationally.  The joint funeral service was televised.  The thing that I always remember was that the three girls were in identical white caskets and friends were invited to sign them.  Strange, but touching at the same time. 

This was the first school shooting I remember being talked about on national media.  Sadly, they have continued and gotten worse.  When will these shootings - especially the ones at our schools - stop?  We don’t know.  Only God does.  They are a warning to us that something has gone dreadfully wrong in our society.  Evil (called “mental illness” by some) is rampant.  It makes it all the more important that we teach our children, and adults as well, about Jesus’s death for our salvation and show them God’s Love. 

I hope and pray we never again hear or read a news cast like the one I heard that fateful day - December 1, 1997. 

They Came But I Didn't Speak Up

My daughter and I am opposites in many ways.  The one difference I want to point out today is politics.  Susanna French is passionate and very vocal - hence her recent election as President of the National Federation of Democratic Women.  I’m not into the political scene.  I’ve always felt my opinions are mine and others are entitled to theirs.  However, as this year has progressed, with every day bringing more and more drama, chaos, criticism, finger pointing, and hateful rhetoric, I am asking myself, “How do I feel about this?  What kind of stand should I make?  Why do I not speak out?  What will happen to my friendships if they don’t agree with me?”  And on and on my questions go. 
 

The Charlottesville, VA incident this past weekend, and the atmosphere that has followed that is almost minute by minute growing more divisive, contentious, and quarrelsome, is weighing on my mind.  Personally, I think it is time to take a stand.  I woke up this morning thinking about FIRST THEY CAME, by Pastor Martin Niemöller, written just after the Holocaust.  It is a poem made powerful by its pronouns: They-I-I, They-I-I, They-I-I, They-no one-me.
                                                           
This 20th-century poem reads as almost tailor-made for the remix culture of the 21st century. It features an almost fill-in-the-blank format.   Here is the version quoted by the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum:

                                                     
First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out— 
Because I was not a Socialist.

Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Trade Unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me. ___________________________________________________________________________________

There is an updated version written by Gideon Lichfield rewritten for Donald Trump’s America.  Be aware, it is controversial and may offend your political ideals. 

What would Martin Niemöller write today?
The famous poem by an anti-Nazi pastor, rewritten for Donald Trump’s America
By Gideon Lichfield   

First Trump came for the women
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a woman.

Then Trump came for the people with disabilities
And I did not speak out
Because I did not have a disability.

Then Trump came for the African Americans
And I did not speak out
Because I was not African American.

Then Trump came for the Mexicans
And I did not speak out
Because I was not Mexican.

Then Trump came for the Muslims
And I did not speak out
Because I was not Muslim.

Then Trump came for the gay, bi, and trans people
And I did not speak out
Because I was not gay, big, or trans.

Then Trump came for the Jews
And I did not speak out
Because I was not Jew.

Then Trump came for the journalists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not journalist.

Then Trump came for the judges
And I did not speak out
Because I was not judge.

And now Trump is coming for the Constitution of the United States
And if I do not speak out, what am I?

It’s time for everyone to remember Niemöller’s words, and speak out in support of anyone who becomes the target of hate-mongers and their alt-right cohorts.

The Major Influence In My Life

All of us have at least one someone that influenced us in our formative years.  The major influence in my life was my maternal grandmother.  Most of my behavior, actions and opinions can be linked back to her. 

Due to circumstances beyond her control, my mother and I had to move in with her parents when I was still a toddler.  My grandfather (also a great influence in my life) was an automobile mechanic - one of the first in our area to go to Detroit and be trained by the car manufacturers.  No child support came, forcing Mother to go to work.  My grandmother quit her job as an accomplished "seamstress and alteration lady" to stay home, care for me (actually, she didn’t just CARE for me, she RAISED me), and run a happy home.  She continued to take in sewing at home and did everything she could to save money during those lean days.  She was actively involved in church and the Order of the Eastern Star.  Frequently I think of something I wish I had asked her.  She wasn’t what could be called an educated person, but she sure was smart!

She seemed to enjoy being called by the unique nickname "Poy" (probably my attempt at Floy) by me and the entire neighborhood; it even spilled over into the community.  She probably thought the names we used for the other grandmothers in the neighborhood - Mammy, Grandmother, Big Momma, Mrs. . .  ., Aunt . . .  - were "normal" names.

In my head, she was always my grandmother.  In my heart, she was my mother, and Mother knew and understood that.  She told people that at the funeral.  She would let people know (in so many words, if not these) "Sidney and I are more like sisters separated by many years rather than mother and daughter because we were both raised by the same woman."

After my grandmother died, my grandfather told me our comfortable life style was totally due to her taking charge of the finances and "gently pushing" him to succeed.  She wasn’t what would be considered affectionate, but looking back, it is clear she loved deeply.  Her life wasn't easy.  She was from a large family and knew how, and taught us how, to “make do.”   She worked hard to make sure none of the four of us caused a black mark to be on the family name, and that we were respected in the community.

I am a few months shy of being as old as she was when she died, and I still feel “youngish” but 43 years ago she seemed so old to me. Today would have been her 119th birthday. 

 Sidney Lou Johnson and Floy "Poy" Jones Bedwell, 1948