anchored.
J.J. was a skinny kid who moved to our neighborhood when I was in middle school. He was my age, but a lot shorter than me (most of the boys were). More importantly, he played basketball in his driveway. For a few glorious summers, there were enough kids in my neighborhood to have big games of basketball, dodge ball, and hide-and-seek. So one afternoon I took my basketball over to J.J.'s house and rang the doorbell.
"A bunch of us are playing basketball at the end of the street. Wanna play?"
After that he became a regular in our pick-up games, which we played most nights in the summer and every weekend. We didn't know each other very well, as we went to different schools, but my parents liked his parents, he was nice, and really good at basketball. Perfect qualities for a neighborhood kid. And because he was so much shorter than me, I never had a crush on him.
When we reached high school, J.J. moved back to Milwaukee to live with his biological father, and I didn't think much about him. He moved back again briefly when I went off to college, and fathered a little girl. After a few years he moved back to Milwaukee, where he lived until this weekend.
*
My heart was heavy last week, as heavy as it's felt in a long time. On Wednesday, police finally located the body of Franco Garcia, a BC student who disappeared on February 22. A friend of ours at church knew him well, and my heart broke for Franco's family, and for all the people in this young man's life who finally learned the news. I sent an email to our friend, wishing him any peace and comfort he could find, and attaching a link to the post I wrote after my friend Alison died last year. As I pasted the link, chills crept up my spine. Franco was found on April 11, the same day Alison had been hit by a truck the year before. I sent another email, this time to Alison's mother.
*
Yesterday was a great day. Kevin and I had a leisurely breakfast, went to church and saw many of our friends, bought lunch at Whole Foods to eat at home on the couch, and lazed around the house enjoying the peace of the day. Later he went out to see a movie with his brother, while I cleaned up the apartment and talked on the phone with my little sister, who just got her first tattoo (way to go, Jules!). The tattoo is an anchor, meaningful to her in many ways, but so clearly an image of strength. Safety. Security.
I had lots of questions for Jules, as both Kevin and I have wanted tattoos for a long time, and it was a unique and humbling experience to need advice from my little sister. The little sister who I constantly try to guide by my own example, the way I look to my older sisters for guidance. There's no major decision or life change I've had to make that at least one of my older sisters hasn't made before. It's comforting to know who to call, whose mistakes to learn from, whose counsel is best for each situation. And Julie has even more - 3 older sisters to learn from. For everything she's done, she's had a model: how to move away to college, how to earn a graduate degree, how to get your own apartment. This time, however, she did something none of us has done before. She went to a tattoo parlor, sat in the chair, and left a stronger person. Stronger for having endured what most people are too terrified to even try, stronger for knowing that if she got something permanently on her body, it would be something to remind her of her true anchor. I was proud of my not-baby sister, and also humbled by the chance to learn from her.
After I talked to my sister, my mom called.
"Do you remember J.J.?" she asked.
"Of course!" I said, "We used to play basketball all the time."
"Today his parents hosted a celebration of life. J.J. was murdered."
*
I went for a 4-mile run, the longest I've run in a long time. While I needed a long run to train for the 10K we'll be running in a couple weeks, I also just needed to feel something physical, something other than the weight of my heart. Feel my feet hit the ground, feel sweat drip off my face, feel my sides cramp up, feel my breath come in through my nostrils and out through my mouth. It was important to be able to control my own breathing. It's been three months since my grandfather died, and I thought I'd finally caught my breath after that. But then two weeks ago in church we sang "It Is Well With My Soul," one of the songs we had sung at the funeral. I couldn't sing. I sobbed into Kevin's arms, and thought, angrily, "No, God, it is not well with my soul." How could it be?
*
Julie's anchor did more than just inspire me to save up for my own tattoo. It reminded me of what an anchor actually does. It does not stop the storm. It does not stop waves from overtaking the ship. It does not stop the thunder or the lightning or the sickness. It does not stop time.
It holds the ship in place. It keeps the ship connected to the ground below. It ensures that even if the ship is tossed and drenched and broken, it stays firmly rooted to the place the captain has deemed safe.
*
In an email describing their support group for parents who'd lost children, Alison's mother told me, "We are not alone."
Franco's uncle told the Boston Herald, "It gives us a lot of peace. We are praising God for that, that we have found him."
J.J.'s 6-year old daughter told her grandmother (J.J.'s mother), "My daddy died but he's in heaven."
This morning, Julie put up a status message that simply read: anchored.
*
The tattoo I want is lyrics from a song I love (acoustic version below). The line that grips me every time I hear the song is: "On Friday a thief, on Sunday a king."
The line is about the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus...but there's a universal beauty there for everyone. The beauty of life emerging after death. Hope after despair. The glory and riches of a king after the accusations and desperation of a thief.
And the power of someone to "lay death in his grave."
I don't have that power. Death is still so much a part of life, and recently, my life. So I drop my anchor and watch it settle into the sand. I tether my ship tightly, bracing myself for the next storm, expectantly waiting for Sunday, a king.