Tuesday, September 27, 2011

sorrowful epiphany...of sorts

When I woke up this morning, I didn’t think about how teeny little events can cause so much change. I forgot what I’ve learned many times before – that we’re always changing, that everything in our lives leaves its mark, slowly molding us into who we will be in our futures. Who God wants us to be.

Our perspectives, which determine the way we react to our world, are like windows. Stained glass windows. We start out clear and fresh, open-minded. Everything is new. Then things start to change. Colored pane after colored pane slides over the old ones, each pane a different color: tinted lavender, bright yellow, nostalgic gold. The old ones are still there, but the new ones change the old a little. Our understanding gets deeper the more things we learn, the more experiences we have; it changes with the friends we make, the paths we choose…and the colored glass panes we add to our


Like those glasses from National Treasure. With each color, something new is read on the map.

I got a deep red pane of glass added to my ever-changing window today.
So I got ready to go to school this morning, right? I made myself some hot chocolate for the trip, and hopped in my car. I was thinking about homework, music, warm hoodies, the fact that I needed to get gas…and I think there were some friendship thoughts circling around upstairs. I’d only been driving for about three minutes when, out of absolutely nowhere, there’s a white flash right where my car is going to be in the next second and I don’t have time to react.


It’s that heart-wrenching sound that makes you say, “That didn’t just happen.” It makes you hope that you ran over a piece of trash, a cardboard box, even a nail – but you didn’t. You hit something alive.
I hit a small, white, furry dog. He’s dead.
Needless to say, I freaked. First thoughts: “God, tell me there’s a reason for this.”

I was shaking a little and hyperventilating, totally unsure what to do but knowing in my subconscious that I had to get to class. So I keep driving (my eyes combing the sides of the road for any other furry pets that might be out) and as I’m driving I keep praying and almost crying and talking to my car. “Luna,” (that’s the name of my car) “how could you? I thought you loved animals!” *teeny sob* “I know, you didn’t see him either, you’re probably heartbroken, you hit him, I was only driving…”

You don’t want to hear any more. Believe me.

I kept skipping through songs on my iPod, knowing that I couldn’t listen to this crap anymore, but needing desperately the perfect song. “This Man” by Jeremy Camp came on, and I paused.

Jeremy Camp - This Man

I don’t know why, actually. I’ve been in an anti-Jeremy-Camp-and-Third-Day-and-Building429 mood for months now. But it didn’t take me long to realize what part of the reason for me hitting that poor dog was: I needed another level of glass to see through.


Almost immediately after hitting the dog, I could feel tears prickling my eyes. How many times have I cried over Jesus’ death on the cross for me? How many times have I been devastated by the tolls of human lives lost when I hear it on the news?

Why is it that when an innocent animal, or a sitcom love interest (*cough* ninelivesofchloeking *cough*), dies “tragically” (and it is tragic!), we get all heartbroken, but we never worry about the tragedy of human life?

God gave the command, turned His wrath on His Son, and watched as He died. I’ve heard it so many times and it doesn’t hit me. He died. In front of people. With blood trickling down his hands and feet, and out of his side.

So the blood-red perspective I have is a new pane of red glass over my eyes. To see everything in the light of Christ, and Him crucified, and the old me crucified with Him. To realize that God loves every person and creature that dies or will die.

It hurts to realize that most of the time, I just don't care.