Lux et Tenebrae

The girls spent this Christmas with us in Geneva.  Before they arrived, we had talked about all the fun things we might do – a day trip to Lyon, a water-park outing – but instead we stayed at home and cooked and ate and played board games.  Lydia and I let them stay in our bedroom, since it’s bigger than the guest bedroom and there are three of them,  so it wasn’t long before an undergrowth of beauty products and sweatpants and bras took root across the floor.  Because they don’t live with me (I was about to add “full-time,” but the qualifier is kind of unnecessary and also represents a certain sense of denial), I think I find myself feeling their presence, and a subtle hum of joy from their presence, more than I otherwise would. 

We played a lot of Deception: Murder in Hong Kong, a semi-cooperative game in which some players (“Investigators”) are trying to identify a murder weapon and a clue out of a collection of weapons and clues on cards in front of each player.  (The "Hong Kong" bit is irrelevant, but for thematic consistency everything is written in both English and what I assume is Cantonese).  Some of the weapons/clues are obvious ones (“axe”), while others are more bizarre (“e-bike”?) and/or gruesome (“surgery”).  One of the players (the “Forensic Scientist”) silently tries to direct players to the right weapon/clue by providing more information about the crime, using different cards covering the appearance of the scene, the location, the motive, etc..  One player is the “Assassin,” and only she and the Forensic Scientist know who she is, and which weapon and clue are the right ones (with 6 or more players, there’s also an “Accomplice”).  The wrinkle is that none of the Investigators knows which player the Assassin is (there’s a ritual at the beginning of every round involving closing and opening eyes and raising of thumbs), and the Assassin tries to blend in with the rest of the Investigators and throw them off the scent.   Much deduction, arguing, intrigue, play-acting, etc. ensue.  On Christmas Eve, while I cooked roast pork and red cabbage, Lydia and the kids played one game in the kitchen which exploded in riotous shrieks and laughter when Sarah, who had been feigning anger that her sisters were ignoring her clues, was revealed as the Assassin.  We also played some Fury of Dracula, another game where one player is Dracula and the other players pursue him all over Europe (good for one’s eastern European geography), and Dead of Winter, another outstanding and tense co-operative game, because it wouldn't be Christmas without a zombie apocalypse.    

On the 26^th, I drove the girls to the airport for their flight back to Boston.  We exchanged misty-eyed hugs at security.  I was sad to see them leave, but brimming with joy and gratitude for the time we had spent together.

Later that evening I learned that, on Christmas Day, a woman I work with killed herself and her two young children, ages 4 and 1 ½.  The three of them were found on the sidewalk in front of a parking garage tower near Northeastern University in Boston.  Her SUV, doors open, child seats inside, was found on the top floor.  The news reports called this a “murder/suicide,” which I suppose is technically correct, but those terms didn’t make it any easier to process what had happened.

I found myself asking questions about the mundane details of the day itself, an exercise that becomes more horrific and heartbreaking the deeper you go.  Was there something playing on the car radio as she drove over?  Did she say anything to the kids on the way, perhaps a story to put their minds at ease, knowing what the real purpose of her trip was?  Did they talk about the toys that Santa had brought that morning?  As she circled up the parking garage ramp, the parked cars on each floor becoming sparser as she climbed, did she have second thoughts?  When she exited her car on the garage roof, did the cold brace of air on her face trigger a moment, however fleeting, of consideration?  Did she say anything to her children, a brief word of comfort or love, while leading them to the roof’s edge? 

Morbid curiosity like this is at worst fuel for sensational media coverage and gossip, and at best an irrational rescue fantasy.  As if by mentally inserting myself into the horrible moments leading up to their deaths, perhaps I may say or do something to change the outcome.

There is no “sense” to be made here.  None of the “motive” cards in Deception: Hong Kong ("Power," "Money," "Jealousy") remotely capture whatever might lead a human being to such an act.  Talking about brain chemistry and mental health awareness only gets you so far.  As I try to process this, I find myself retreating to broad, somewhat clumsy theological terms.  There are seeds of both immense light and utter darkness within every single one of us.  And darkness, from within or without, can overwhelm the strongest of us.  I do believe, based on faith and experience and probably my own good fortune, that light does prevail in the end, and I pray that this is an idea I will be able to hang onto whenever I may find myself surrounded by darkness in the future.  One never knows.

Last Sunday at church, the opening prayer talked about the new year, and about how being in church offers hope, comfort, strength, and vision as we make resolutions about who we will be and how we will live.  Near the end, our minister Laurence talked about “not taking refuge in a cozy personal faith,” something that I think I (along with a lot of so-called Christians) are susceptible to.  It’s convenient for me to chalk up the horrors of Christmas Day in Boston to the metaphysical struggle between good and evil, light and darkness.  That way, I can put my mind at relative ease, and we can all get back to work.  It’s another thing entirely to testify to that light: to try to, however humbly, be a source of light for other human beings.

James 2:14-18 is worth thinking about, when it comes to making January resolutions:

“What good is it, my brothers and sisters, if someone claims to have faith but has no deeds? Can such faith save them? Suppose a brother or a sister is without clothes and daily food. If one of you says to them, ‘Go in peace; keep warm and well fed,’ but does nothing about their physical needs, what good is it? In the same way, faith by itself, if it is not accompanied by action, is dead."