Wednesday, April 17, 2013
What a feeling. I've very much been holding my breath. In fact, I don't think I've breathed in since my new nephew did; first and fragile, then growing. I'd rather hear his heartbeat than my own at this point. That's the thing about children. They reach out with their little hands and don't let go; they may be small, but their grip is strong. So we focus in, then distract ourselves to cope with our own exhaustion; we watch his growth and admire his lips and toes (oh my goodness....his toes!). The update: Though he came early he is doing well; though he struggles, he wins, and that makes us breath easier.
Rehtaeh, and the many cases like hers, merge into the forefront. Through each story, we wait for the gavel to fall: justice or not, peace or not, redemption or not. We'd begun to collect ourselves, and then someone bombed the family area at the Boston Marathon. After Boston, I saw Hope get up quietly from his seat and place a flower on the bench. Like we're supposed to remember he's still in the room. Like it helps.
Maybe it helps.
Life is made up of anticipation and transition and if the rights fall our way, we get to celebrate sometimes too. So we watch the trials come and go and sit with our hands tied, or at least it feels like it. We breath, in and out, we bide our time, and wait for the answers to reveal themselves. We shift our gaze to the jury box. What of faith, what of justice? What of accountability, community, grace, and retribution? What will become of us? Our final plea can be heard in that question, so we ask again: what will become of us?
Hope, hearing his name, stands up to answer.
artwork by juri ueda