Bloodstains in Barcelona

Hearing of an attack on a city with a familiar name is distressing: Boston, New York, London, Manchester, Brussels, etc. But it's a disconnected kind of sorrow; the fury of a paper fire-- fed into flame by passionate social media bursts but then floating away in forgotten ashes as the news moves on to other topics. A day or so after the initial incident, it's just a conversation topic, addressed in half-hearted and incomplete updates or ignored until mentioned by a celebrity.

But Barcelona: It's different when it comes to streets I've walked. Metro stops I've taken. The cities I've lived in and visited, inhabited with people I know and care for. Barcelona is sacred ground for me. I know the pattern on the sidewalks.
I can imagine what they look like with bloodstains.

Las Ramblas is always packed with tourists. I remember being a tourist there. It is an embodiment of life and color-- packed with people, filled with food, cluttered with keepsakes and souvenirs, and stuffed with shopping of every pay-scale. It's a pedestrian paradise, with street performers and pigeons taking residence among fountains and statues in the circle flanked by banks and museums. It is culture, it is the intersection of worlds, it is Spain.

And now, it will always be somewhat tainted with tragedy.  

https://www.theguardian.com/world/2017/aug/18/terror-timeline-of-barcelona-and-cambrils-attacks-and-other-terror-raids

The second car, the "getaway" car was found in Vic? That was my last area. A tiny town of pure Catalan culture, close enough to Barcelona to make it a popular spot for preparation day. I remember the train, door-less, sometimes standing-room-only, as we cheaply chugged our way to/from Barcelona 

"The remaining suspects are thought to live in or close to the Catalonian town of Ripoll."
Ripoll? That's where Vic's Branch President lives. We were up there every week for an eating cita. It's a beautiful, out-of-the-way little place. And it's tiny.

I found out just an hour after the attack. I was on Facebook, reading what I could find, learning as much as I possible, becoming the local informational authority. I went to to gym with mom and watched it roll out on the news (the gym is actually the only place I really watch the news, other than the CNN 10). I found a Spanish flag overlay and applied it to my profile picture. I shared a link. I was the first of my friends to do so.
And I waited.
I knew it was bad, I knew it should hurt. 
I waited for the pain. 
And it came. 
I knew that people would be thinking of me, wondering how I was handling it. As they reached out, I assured them I was fine.
Fine= Fully Incapable of Normal Emotions

The pain came in strange moments. First, as my sister said a hurried prayer over our food I interrupted and asked her to bless the people in Spain and it suddenly struck me as real. Again as I saw the community response and outreach, making the best of a bad situation.
As I scrolled Facebook after the Barcelona attack, I saw a friend post that she was vacationing in a Spanish town I'd never heard of, called "Cambrils." I woke up the next morning to find that they'd attacked there, too. And the painful connections kept coming; an old companion posted a frantic call for any information on a family member, Jared Alton. Her aunt and uncle were there the day of the Barcelona attack, and got separated. After a while, the posts stopped. Buried away in the comment section of the post a few days later, I found out that his name was posted in the news as "deceased." I felt it in a song we sang in church on Sunday (Hark, All Ye Nations), which is one that always comes to mind in Spanish first. Another hymn chosen for the meeting (Master, the Tempest Is Raging) was sung more often in my heart than with my voice during the hard times of my mission. Finally, I feel the affects of being "fine" in my unrelated but agitated dreams, as I uncharacteristically yell, fists-clenched and red-faced, at the people I love for ridiculous reasons such as not going to bed on time or for moving my clothes.

I was able to talk with one of my favorite people from Barcelona yesterday. I felt the need to connect with someone from there again and, as it turns out, she needed to talk to me, too. We didn't mention the terrorist attacks, we just... talked. And it was a wonderful, healing moment. 

I don't think I have a traditional way of handling, feeling, or even recognizing grief (exhibit A), but I'm becoming more familiar with my way. I'm remembering to be patient with myself, to push off the guilt for what I don't immediately feel, and to rely on strength and understanding beyond my own. Barcelona will always have mixed emotions in my memories, and that's ok.

And I'm ok.

 

To My Dear Friend at the Loss of her Mother

My Dear Friend,

I do not know your pain. I have not had a loss that great and my mind refuses to imagine it. Even if I could, the myriad differences in the details of our lives decry the injustice of such a comparison. Your pain and grief are uniquely your own just as your strengths and memories are. I do not endeavor to empathize fully, but in my limited way... I want to try. I want to lend my support and share what strengthened me.

You have been so strong. I saw you a couple days before and you were still the same loving and positive girl that I admire so much. You did not wear your worry on your sleeves. You have planned and taken care of so many things, you have overcome great fears.

I lost Eduardo, I lost my Grandmother. These were the things that comforted me:

Alma 40:11 Now, concerning the state of the soul between death and the resurrection—Behold, it has been made known unto me by an angel, that the spirits of all men, as soon as they are departed from this mortal body, yea, the spirits of all men, whether they be good or evil, are taken home to that God who gave them life.
12 And then shall it come to pass, that the spirits of those who are righteous are received into a state of happiness, which is called paradise, a state of rest, a state of peace, where they shall rest from all their troubles and from all care, and sorrow.

1. To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:  A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; All go unto one place; all are of the dust, and all turn to dust again. (Ecclesiastes 3:1,2,20.)

Revelations 21:4 And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.

"So if you've died and crossed the stream before us, we pray that angels met you on the shore, and you'll look down and gently you'll implore us to live, so we may see your smiling face once more."

[From “Danny Boy” 3rd verse.]

It took me a while to cry over my losses. I grieve in a very distinct way, and maybe you do, too. We know about the plan of salvation. You know you have a loving Heavenly Father with a perfect plan. You can count on it.
You and your family are in my thoughts and prayers.
Love,
Alayna

A Day Without Sunrise

There was no sunrise here yesterday.

I thought it was strange. (someone should sue me for the over use of that word)

On my walk to my seminary carpool, I've become used to seeing the sunrise.
Yesterday there was no sunrise. No clouds. Not even a highlight of the rising sun. The entire sky was a mass of even gray. No variation. No color. Just a dusty gray. (Literally. We later found out that it was caused by dust in the wind)

Given what happened yesterday, I can't help but see this as a metaphor or symbol.

Yes. The Boston Marathon bombing.

I... don't want to write the facts, so here's a link. Basic Facts

What does this mean? I'll tell you one thing. Gun Control isn't the problem. If it were, this wouldn't have happened. No. The problem is that there are people out there who just want to hurt others. People who want to kill people. And they are always one step ahead.

It's sickening. Frustrating. 

What can we do? Pray for the victims, punish the culprit. Learn what we can. Wait for the next disaster. 

This is my third disaster.

Aurora Colorado, 7/21/12 

Sandy Hook Elementary, 12/14/12

Boston Marathon, 4/15/13

There have been more. But these are the ones I remember. I remember what I was doing that day. I remember who told me, or how I heard it first. I remember the facts, and how they kept changing as time wore on. I remember the victims. I remember the murderers. I remember asking why.
Why. Why do people kill? What could possibly push them this far? How depraved must that person's mind be... to plan such destruction. When will it happen again?

And then I get to thinking like this.

 

There is so much WRONG with this world. 

 One man's heartache is another man's headline.

And then someone said this.
"You want to know why. This may sound cynical, but here's why.
It's because of the way the media reports it. Flip on the news and watch how we treat the Batman theater shooter and the Oregon mall shooter like celebrities. Dylan Klebold and Eric Harris are household names, but do you know the name of a single *victim* of Columbine? Disturbed people who would otherwise just off themselves in their basements see the news and want to top it by doing something worse, and going out in a memorable way. Why a grade school? Why children? Because he'll be remembered as a horrible monster, instead of a sad nobody.

CNN's article says that if the body count "holds up", this will rank as the second deadliest shooting behind Virginia Tech, as if statistics somehow make one shooting worse than another. Then they post a video interview of third-graders for all the details of what they saw and heard while the shootings were happening. Fox News has plastered the killer's face on all their reports for hours. Any articles or news stories yet that focus on the victims and ignore the killer's identity? None that I've seen yet. Because they don't sell. So congratulations, sensationalist media, you've just lit the fire for someone to top this and knock off a day care center or a maternity ward next.

You can help by forgetting you ever read this man's name, and remembering the name of at least one victim. You can help by donating to mental health research instead of pointing to gun control as the problem. You can help by turning off the news."

And then I heard this.

And I remember.
The world can't be as bad as it seems.
It can't.
Because in this world of horror, depravity, and darkness...
You and I live.
We carry on.

We pray. We love. We nurture.
We teach correct principles. We learn of forgiveness.
We are children of God. All of us.
All of us.


"Happiness can be found, even in the darkest of times, if only one remembers to turn on the light"-Albus Dumbledore.

We are the light of the world. You and I. The helpers. The heroes.
Darkness is nothing more than the absence of light.
As long as we are here, as long as we don't give up, darkness cannot win.



I didn't see the sunrise that morning. The colors didn't shine through. But this doesn't mean that the light wasn't there.