Last night I read this open letter to teachers about the
healing powers of faith, courage, and love.
It was written by Nebla Marquez-Green, mother of two children, her
daughter, who died at Sandy Hook Elementary last December, and her son, who
lived. And it struck me that our
national image of courage is one of a person in uniform: police officers, soldiers, and firefighters,
mostly. These people, by nature of their
occupational choice, are courageous, no doubt.
They somehow face opponents that the rest of us gladly hand over to
them. These are the people we call when
the situation we are facing is beyond the scope of our skills. This
is courage, no doubt, to head to work each morning knowing that danger lurks at
the very nature of the work they do. They
are worthy of the honors bestowed upon them and the sacred days we mark in
their names. And while Mrs.
Marquez-Green feels that anyone who works at schools should rightly be included
in that category of courageous heroes, there’s something else, too.
Courage does not always wear a uniform. Indeed, it is far more often cloaked in fear
and darkness, hidden beneath our soft flesh, encased in a cage of brittle bones
- like the very organ from which its name is derived. Perhaps this quiet, quivering courage is the
most important kind, and the type of courage that Mrs. Marquez-Green so
gracefully conveys - and I do not mean the courage of teachers that she pays
tribute to, but her own courage.
Certainly, heroes rose to the occasion on that December day
in Newtown, on 9/11 and on other dark days in our past. Heroes will undoubtedly be called upon
again. But what about the courage of the
days, weeks, months, and years that followed the tragedies in Aurora, Tucson,
Oklahoma City, and Newtown? The parents
who found the courage to take their children back to school? Those who found the courage to show up to
work at the movie theater, the grocery store, the schools, the government
job? Courage doesn’t just happen at the
site and on the date of a tragedy or near-tragedy. It sprouts from that, but in mundane
locations, like living rooms and hospital beds, classrooms and carpool lanes.
I sense courage everyday from regular people. Students who continue to show up and persevere
in spite of the odds being stacked wildly against them. Parents who know full well the inadequacies
their children are saddled with, and yet, who continue to encourage them to take that next
step. This past winter, I was told for
the first time in my life that I was courageous. It’s a huge compliment, but to be completely
honest, I hope to never be in another situation where courage is required. Courage comes from the heart, to be
sure. It requires a degree of fortitude
that is exhausting and a level of focus that is exacting. And truly, all any of the quiet courageous
really want is a return to normalcy, or a new normalcy if the old one is no
longer possible.
Think of all the days following 9/11, when, slowly, the
stark reality of finding a loved one in the rubble of the towers evaporated to
nil. Think of the courage required to
accept that. Because if that horrible
fate is possible, then what else is? It
takes so much, sometimes, just to keep breathing. But one breath leads us to the next, and with
the distance of time, we can begin to see what might be possible.
From time to time, we catch glimpses of this quiet courage,
reflected perhaps in dignified bearing of Gabby Giffords or Mrs. Marquez-Green’s
grateful letter. But more often than
not, courage reveals itself in the flutter of our hearts: a not-so-shaky voice that calls out, “I am here.
I am present.”
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