​Since I was a child, I’ve been haunted by the big questions of life that usually begin with WHY? I couldn’t understand suffering, for example. It seemed to befall friends and family indiscriminately and leave a terrifying wake. I’d cry before crucifixes and look to the heavens for answers. But, mostly, I found only more tears.

Reading Suzanne Burke’s book, Empty Chairs, brought me back to my youthful pleas. And, yes, I cried again – deep, wrenching tears.

I don’t know if any book has touched me as deeply as this book. It isn’t perfectly written, but the story is masterfully told. What do I mean? There are typos, there are misspellings, but the writing is so powerful that it takes the reader into the soul of a little child who is horribly mistreated.

Australian author Suzanne Burke writes about her experience of unspeakable abuse from very early childhood until she finally escapes to the streets at age eleven. From the perspective of a toddler and through years of horror, the reader experiences the pain and the confusion that accompanies unspeakable violation. Terror becomes real.

Why read this book? It is a testimony to the human spirit – to that which can destroy and to that which can defy such debasement and emerge whole and loving.

I am reminded of the words of Elisabeth Kubler-Ross. “The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known struggle, known loss, and have found their way out of those depths.” Empty Chairs is about such a journey, and Suzanne Burke is one of those “beautiful people.” 

​Today's tragic events at a baseball practice in Virginia prompt a reflection on violence - violent words and violent actions. It's a topic most of us would like to ignore, but sadly, we cannot because we are its victims. 

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           My country, the United States of America, is armed. Not just the South, as Northerners like to imagine. Not just the inner cities, as suburban folks might suggest. The entire country is armed – from New York to Florida, from Chicago to the Gulf States, from Seattle to Arizona. But, why?

Are we all afraid of the drug dealers down the street or the thieves who prey on innocents? Why are we armed? I suspect that the real reason we are armed is because of the precipice at which we stand - the chasm of failed trust.

We’ve suffered through a very contentious election process. If it weren’t battering enough to listen to months of ugliness, we now deal with post-election nastiness - which erupted today in the cowardly shooting of unarmed people. 

As a person who has experienced violence up close and personal, who has known diminishment because of my gender, who has been ridiculed because of what I believe, I know what it is to be considered valueless. But I also know what it takes to face that abyss straight on. 

My heroes, those who accompany me through life, are Harriett Tubman and Martin Luther King, Jr, Nelson Mandela and Bishop Tutu. They walked a path marked by courage, choosing non-violence over hate, as they traveled into the heart of conflict and sorrow. Their path is one I believe we need to embrace.

We see the evidence and surely we must know that a choice for violence in words or deeds is a choice to destroy. The rhetoric defending such actions moves me not. I may be old and foolish, but I believe we each can summon the courage to bridge the divide, to restore trust in humankind. 

You and I ultimately hold the possibility of hope for our country, for our world. Plato's words "Always be kind, for everyone is fighting a hard battle," get to the heart of the problem.  If we find ourselves hating someone or someones, we need to pause, because hate unraveled reveals a hurting heart. 

I care about our country – profoundly. I care about my loved ones – profoundly. I care about our beautiful earth – profoundly. And, I know that all that I love, all that I care about, teeters on your choice and mine. 

If we could summon the courage to attend to our hurting hearts, would we still feel the need to lash out in word or deed to blame another for our misery? ​I wonder, don't you?

​There are days we want to forget. Flying back from San Diego, CA to Springfield, MO shouldn’t have been one of those days, but it was. It was raining in Dallas, where I needed to connect to another flight. Though I didn’t think much about that fact, I soon learned that rain meant the airport gods were angry.

The AA flight from sunny San Diego departed on time, with only one straggler who managed to secure an Exit Row seat in front of me. His carry-on, much larger than permitted, had to be stored several rows behind him – near mine. As soon as we were airborne, he began his unrelenting appeal for the flight attendants to move his luggage near him. When they finally conceded an hour later and moved the luggage of other passengers to accommodate his, I asked to relocate to the back of the plane just to be away from this nonsense. 

Settling into my new seat, the woman next to me asked, “What did you do? Are they going to throw you off the plane?”

I laughed so hard, I could barely get my breath; but I now realize, it was the beginning of the end. Did I mention, it was raining in Dallas, an omen not to be ignored?

When the plane landed, people were pacing the hallways. I soon learned why - the flight to Springfield was canceled. We were told to get in line to reserve another flight. I did this. Two hours later, however, my new flight was also canceled. Again, I got in line, to find another seat on another flight. Finally at 9:30 pm, the third flight was canceled. There was no crew, and after all, it was still raining or at least sprinkling.

I got in another line to try to find a flight for the next day, only to be told that all seats to Springfield, MO were taken. Who knew this metropolis was a destination site? But, staff reassured me that there was a flight to Joplin, MO, and it had four empty seats. (Joplin is 1.5 hours from Springfield by car.) I leaped for joy. My husband could pick me up. I had a chance to escape my cement prison. (I will skip the hotel trauma drama.)

The next day, I went to the Joplin gate. Four delays later (no crew, mechanical issues), the flight finally landed in Joplin at 3:30 in the afternoon. Then the announcement from the cockpit:

“Sigh…just when we thought it could not get any worse, we have learned that the tire on the jet-bridge is flat.”

Passengers erupted in laughter. Yes, we needed to climb down the plane's stairs, and those who could not walk would be carried – somehow. But, now the gods were laughing with us, for it was the perfect ending to an otherwise imperfect travel saga and it was sunny outside!
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The moral of this story is simple: be prepared for the unexpected, know whom to call for help and if you have a hammock and it’s raining in Dallas, bring it.