This week has been a hard week for America. It has been a week of tragedy with the Boston Marathon explosions and the plant explosion in West, Texas.
I am having a hard time writing this blog. As I sit here typing, tears keep coming to my eyes. Tears of compassion for those who were injured in both. Their lives will never be the same again.
For the past several days, I have seen our news programs splash picture after picture and story after story about the men who allegedly set the bombs at the Boston Marathon. We have watched the family of these two young men plead with them and with Americans. They want us to have compassion for the men who did this, but I have to admit. I have a hard time feeling compassion for these young men. I don’t want to know why they did. I don’t care. They made their choice whatever the reasons for it, and yet our news programs are devoted to finding out why. I say the why is not important.
What is important to me are the stories of the people who were injured in both Boston and West, Texas. I want to know their stories. I want to know what it is that I can do to help. I want to know where the compassion for those whose lives have been changed forever is. I don’t want to intrude in their lives, but I wonder, “What about their stories?”
Families who are struggling with grief because they lost loved ones.
People who suffered grievous injuries.
People who are without housing.
Children without a school.
What are their stories? How can we help them?
We are called to help them. We are called to serve them with mercy and compassion.
Where are the stories of the helpers?
The people who are worked tirelessly to find people who were missing in West, Texas.
The doctors who worked round-the-clock to save the lives of those injured.
The men and women who ran toward the explosions in a desire to help without any thought to the danger they could be putting their own lives in.
We've seen pictures of them, but what are their stories?