The Sacred Container of Community

 This week in my Indiana hometown, two eighth grade girls went for a hike in the country. Their bodies were found the next day and the hunt for their murderer continues.  My heart hurts for the families, friends, teachers and neighbors of those sweet girls. I watch the montage of photographs shared by high school friends and I weep. I spent many days of my youth in the woods, rode my bike on country roads, spent entire days outside without my parents  wondering or worrying about me.  Today, we’re revising our narrative of a town we thought we knew, shaken to our core, as my sister put it. I imagine there will be new warnings to children to avoid strangers, in an understandable attempt to keep them safe.

Yet this week, a ten year old Minnesota boy was honored for rescuing a woman who had fallen on the ice in her driveway and was immobilized, calling for help, yet hidden behind trash cans. Had no one come she would have gotten hypothermia.  At a school convocation, the boy commented that although his parents had always warned him not to talk to strangers, he moved toward her cries anyway. Something deeper led him to help.

There’s another story I can’t get out of my head. Earlier this month immigrants from Africa, afraid of persecution and deportation, walked into Canada across the borders of northern Minnesota and North Dakota in 22 below zero weather.  One man lost fingers, another lost both hands to frostbite. They literally risked life and limb for the sake of their children. The pictures of Canadian police greeting these refugees with smiles and hugs flood the internet.

When we hide, judge, close our eyes, doors, and hearts, we’re letting the most frightened parts of ourselves call the shots. It might feel safe for a time, but it’s not who we are as full human beings. It’s when we’re sick, helpless, poor, and bereft that we realize how much we need each other. Challenging times call for us to open our hearts wider, to trust more and to care for strangers.  There’s been a huge outpouring of support, benefits, and prayers for the families of the murdered girls. That response to tragedy shows me we are hardwired to be connected and take risks to create a beloved community.

While money can insulate me from dependence on others (I hire help when I'm in trouble most of  time), I want to say yes when I’m invited to stretch my hand to the next person in need, look them in the eye, and offer support. That’s the only way I know that the fabric of community, so horrendously broken each day in some way, is healed and repaired.