I’ve been absent from the blogosphere for a while now. Every time I’d sit down to write something, I was blocked by this massive brick wall. I couldn’t see past it, move beyond it, or ignore it. I couldn’t write about anything trivial, but I also couldn’t write about this brick wall because it would be “inappropriate” to do so. So I sat with my back against this brick wall, knees in my chest, just waiting for something to change. Months passed. Sometimes I’d stand up and fight against the wall, punching it over and over as though I could make it crumble and go away. All that did was leave me with bloody knuckles and a broken heart. So I continued to sit at the wall, waiting. One day I finally realized that the wall wasn’t going to change, I had to change. So now I’m going to sit and write about this brick wall in front of me, staring it down until it no longer has any power over me.
WARNING: Members of my family might find this post offensive. However, writing is the only way I know how to cope.
A handful of extremists were able to shake the world on November 13th. They attacked without warning and without regard for human life. They turned a peaceful, happy night out on the town into a night of horror for thousands of people.
So much life. So many hopes and dreams. So much vibrance stolen from the world in one night.
So what do we do? We watch the news. We light candles. We reflect on the value of life and how thankful we are to be alive. We worry. We wait for them to catch the bad guys. We get angry. We wonder how this could have happened. And, eventually, we get numb.
Some of us immediately point the finger of blame at God. How could God have let this happen? What kind of god would allow this? If this is your God, I want nothing to do with him. So many people, even Christians, find themselves asking these sort of questions. Why, God?
I skimmed through the syllabus on the first day of my Children’s Literature class this semester, and I soon as I saw Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone on the reading list my heart filled with dread. I sat perfectly still in my seat, but my mind had taken me back to my childhood, over ten years ago, when my mom expressly forbade my siblings and I to read, or even think about reading, Harry Potter. My mom had sermons and bible verses to back her up, so we listened to her, and our conservative Christian home remained a Harry Potter-free zone up until a few days ago.
The day finally came when I had to read the first Harry Potter book for class. I borrowed the book from my fiance (who was a huge Potter nerd back in the series’ heyday), and smuggled it into the house late at night in the safety of my purse. I started reading the first few chapters under my covers in the glow from the light of my iPhone, and then hid the book under my bed before falling asleep (which I guess was kind of pointless because my parents read my blog, and now they’ll know everything). Yes, I am 21 years old and read Harry Potter in secret.