Monday July 26th, 2017 10:02am (Day 309)
I slept peacefully in Capital Federal electronically disconnected from the world, a rarity for me. It was my version of the weekend. After over ten months in country it no longer occurred to me that tragedy happened. I felt like I escaped that. As if I was fleeing from R.I.P. T- shirts and police brutality. I arrived to this land foreign to me with generations upon generations living, trauma that was not quite fatal, and baptisms in abundance. Maybe six months into this journey I had completely written off the idea of preparing for a funeral. The joke is on me I guess.
As my alarm sounded, I asked my friend for a wifi password. I was carefree- for a moment.
“Nic fallecieron 3 chicas del colegio en el accidente. C.C. esta destruido. Te necestiamos.” (8:57am)
“Estamos en el templo.” (9:52am)
My eyes stretched over the message confused at what I was reading. “Three of my students were in an accident. I don’t understand what this says though. Fallecieron?” Someone else had to explain to me that my students were dead. My face dropped. This could not be happening.
But I’m not in Grand Bourg. I’m an hour away. What do I do? More messages popped up on my phone from the congregation with lists of girls that were hospitalized or potentially dead. My brain could not even compute what I was reading. This happened last night? Mendoza? 100 different things raced through my mind as I tried to stay calm in front of others while putting the pieces together.
“Yo vengo.”
What was a forty two minute train ride felt like three days as SZA played in my headphones. I scrolled through Instagram stories where majority of my connection with students reside. Our youth are aching something awful. Our community is disheveled. I finally began to cry. With no idea who these students at the time, my heart continued to ache for Instituto Evangelico Argentino (IEA). Our community has this bond I have never experienced before. Parent support exceeds the boundaries of our building and into field trips like Rosario. Teachers love students like they are their own. I have watched them cut food for students during meals and prepare children’s clothes during shower time. Familes and staff of the school watch these children grow up together from nursery throughout high school. And it doesn’t end there either. Iglesia de San Lucas sits right in the center of the school acting as the Lutheran alternative to Communion class, confirmation class, and youth related activities. Majority of our first communion kids are students of IEA as well as most of the attendees of Saturday LIGA. We are as bonded to the spiritual nourishment of IEA students as we are to our baptized members. This was not merely losing students, this was like losing your own kin.
I arrived at the school by 11:16am while teachers gathered in a circle of mourning and the directors clicked through Facebook photos. They showed me the last videos the girls, Marianela, Maria Sol, and Valentina, posted before the accident. Savoring the precious moments. While standing there in silence they finally explained to me what happened. A dance studio from Grand Bourg were on a trip in Mendoza. Something happened while on the bus which was difficult to understand. What was presented in the papers and on the news was a turned over bus leading to fifteen deaths, including our three girls. Others were severely injured and remain hospitalized in Mendoza. Another one of our students is part of that group. I did not know until then that there were others involved in this tragedy. I could not even begin to fathom what this meant for the greater Grand Bourg community. As each second passed the day became more grim.
The school was so empty that morning. I remember the erie silence in the halls where children normally play. Cleaning staff continued with their tasks as tears dropped on the very floors they wiped. They were our girls. Words could not crawl to my tongue fast enough. Just teary eyes and cold hands. Even with a room full of staff it felt like each one of us were alone. While there was community and embraces passed amongst each other, facial expressions displayed various essences of grief. As they should. Tell me, what does one say to broken hearts and empty spirits?
As they hour grew longer I felt myself back in CPE at Grady Hospital. There was a gunshot wound to the head victim, teenage girl, found on the side of the road in the early morning. I remember when her parents arrived. Her mother was unconsolable and her step father was too at a loss of words. I remember the strange discomfort I had around accompanying her and my consistent inability to speak. How far into the room should I be? Should I say anything? Do I rub her shoulder blade? I remember the regret I felt after leaving them feeling as though I did not do my job. Like there was more that could be done to provide care to those in grief. These feelings resurfaced as teachers greeted and walked past me to head home for the day. My mouth wanted to move but to say what? How do I embrace them so they know they are fully supported? Am I doing this pastoral care thing right? My anxiety has an appetite.
What happens next? It was now almost 1:00pm and the Candelight Vigil at the plaza was not until 7:00pm. I had no desire return to my home and isolate in fear of letting my own grief destroy me. So I walked up to the secundaria and returned to my newly beloved scaffold. I stared at the mural as my back faced the same seats the seventh and eighth graders would sit during recess and after school. Our girls were the same age. They too would linger by the recess tables or run in and out of the girls bathroom which resided on the left side of the mural. This patio felt sacred. In pure emptiness I could almost feel presence of these friend groups strolling by and staring. I remembered all the various students that would ask to help during break. I could hear the whispered “Que lindo”s from the lips of teens. Our youth are so sacred.
By the end of the session three pink ballet slippers hung from the hand of God. The same hand that held a girl in the waters of baptism. It felt prophetic for a minute to see this image of the baptismal water as we are given new life through this Holy Sacrament. We believe that through this sacrament death is not the end result. Rather, death is the point of transition to where we begin our eternal life with God our Creator in Heaven. It hurts today to lose our loved ones in their physical form and by no means is the acceptance of death easy. However, in baptism we trust in God’s eternal love for us and the gift of eternal life through our faith in the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. I guess the challenge is then believing that God still loves us even when we lose someone we love. Accepting the fatality of innocent children is a spoonful to swallow. It is an unbearable pain for parents and caretakers. A travesty such as this makes it difficult to reconcile with a loving God and a God often taught to be a puppeteer of daily life. My family too had to reconcile with this issue as I’m sure plenty of others had to as well. I try to preach about a responsive God rather than a commanding God. The God of the Israelites who led Her people out of Egypt during times of slavery and genocide. I hope we can imagine a God who hears Her people and aches with them equally. God loves us so much that she gave us the power to live autonomously and hopefully humbled.This accident is of human origin and how we will all heal is of God’s power. Though that may be tough to digest today I cannot imagine leading a life of hate and resentment over something out of my own control. In other words, the God of my understanding is the one who is life giving, pain bearing, and earth making.
It was now 6:42pm and I had 18 minutes to prepare to publicly grieve with my community. Part of me wanted to walk home and shut down. But the streets were filled of people walking towards the plaza. Flower stores and candle stores had lines out of the door. Text messages kept coming in from congregants. I sat on the sidewalk in front of a local restaurant trying to develop the courage to walk. Then a student from the primary school passed me and waved. We all need each other.
I am curious how often pastors need to find the courage to face people. Tell me, has this ever happened to you? When we heard the Grand Jury did not indict Darren Wilson, heading in to Center City Philadelphia to protest and grieve was not even a second thought. One’s presence had always been instinctive. Then something like this happens and it seemed like my instincts were fading. I am ashamed.
The night was warm as if it were the bosom of God Herself. I walked over to the plaza with an ice cream cone in my hand as an irrational method to keep calm. Members of San Lucas waved me over as the vigil began. We lit our candles in silence and retreated to a less crowded space. Then a woman walked up to the stage where the TV cameras were. She invited the cluster of us to pray the Lord’s Prayer for the girls. Maybe is was the tearful mothers next to me but in that moment something clicked. As hundreds of community members entered the plaza, I began walking through the crowds to find my people. There was this bizarre juxtaposition throughout the space. Small children carelessly tinkered on the playground while their parents were swallowed in each others arms. High school kids that once laughed on the grass they stood on were consumed by tears. Hallow trees felt more full than the onlookers on the streets. For brief moments I embraced youth, teachers, directors, and mothers. My tongue was still tied and my anxiety still thrived but it was important to check in on as many of us that I could. It was hard. It was uncomfortable. Yet it was intentional- the spirituality of presence. 308 days ago Grand Bourg welcomed me with open arms and invited me to accompany their ministry in the world. They offered me steadfast love and entrusted to be an equal participant in their community. Whether or not I am deserving of that invitation, they are deserving of all the love and support any stranger could possibly offer.
The night concluded well after I departed as we all planned to regather at 11:00pm at the viewing of the bodies. We never reconnected. In reality is was better this way. There was no way anything healthy could come from us rushing through the evening to grieve once again. Everyone was tired if not physically at least emotionally. Eyes were swollen and red. Hands were filled with tissues.
Not tonight.
Tomorrow we would meet again.
#ReclaimMissionary
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