Today is one of those family anniversaries that go by with little fanfare. Yet we quietly remember this day as the day our understanding of HOPE changed. I wish all we needed to do to keep our children safe, was to hold them close. Parenting is as much (or more) about letting them go, then holding them tight.
The last time I was in New Orleans was also the last time the Evanagelical Lutheran Church in America youth gathered there. Seems like a weird place to send 50,000 high school youth. We have had a lot of water under the bridge since the River of Hope in July of 1997. It was before 911 and before Katrina. The River of Hope marked the very beginning of a chapter in my own life, too. As youth prepare to gather in New Orleans once again, I can’t help but feel a sense of joy and anticipation at what new hope will be found there in that city once again.
My husband, Duke and I were accompanying seventeen young people from our church, Trinity in Fort Worth. We had spent a lot of time with these people as their volunteer youth sponsors when they were in middle school. They were so different as high school youth—grown-up. We felt so lucky to get to be with them on this trip. We joked with our third chaperone, Cameron Brown, on the bus-ride south “We’re taking seventeen youth down there, we just need to bring seventeen back.” It was a joke, because we knew only good things were in store for us.
New Orleans is hot and humid in July. The easiest way to get around was to walk–close to 50,000 of us—walking. We walked from our hotel, near the water, up to the Super Dome and back again, morning and evening. We always walked behind and in front of someone wearing a River of Hope t-shirt—always hope, always walking. In the middle of the day, we walked around New Orleans, going on service treks or devo’s especially designed to let us see sights or serve the city. We ate great food.
Did I mention I was seven months pregnant? We were expecting our second daughter soon. We felt a little buoyant and invincible, at least that is how we felt when we signed up to go. But, even in July in New Orleans, I felt pretty buoyant. There is something wonderful about the second baby—we KNEW the immeasurable joy in store for us.
The only dilemma weighing on our mind in New Orleans was what to name this new baby. We picked a very unique name for our first daughter, Navy. The problem with such a perfectly wonderful and unique name for the first baby, is WHAT could we possibly name the second daughter? Somehow the Gathering highlighted this problem. 50,000 names out there, surely we would like one.
We had some rules, like we couldn’t pick a name from our own youth group—that would look like favoritism. It couldn’t start with “B.” (Duke could make up new rules on the fly.) It also seemed like the importance of names were constantly pointed out—many youth were baptized there in the Super Dome—claiming their new name, “child of God.” Walter Wangerin, Jr. was the preacher the last night. It was a story of Jesus on the cross calling out our name. 50,000 people yelled out their name and then silence. 50,000 youth silent. But no new name rang in our ears.
We kept walking beside, behind and ahead of all these youth, with River of Hope emblazoned on their backs. We wanted her to grow-up like them, all 50,000. They were invincible and brave, like youth should be, yet kind. Taxi cab drivers were amazed by them. Old blues-musicians in Preservation Hall had tears in their eyes as the 50,000 begged for multiple encores of “When the Saints Come Marching In.” They danced and sang to Lost and Found’s music. Why couldn’t we name her after them? All of them. And with the songs ringing in our ears, it all made sense. Her name was Hope.
We brought seventeen youth safely back to Fort Worth. Our seventeen went on to go into the Coast Guard, go to college, become Miss Texas, get married, become a pastor and many other wonderfully hopeful paths.
Hope was an easy baby. While still in the hospital, a nurse said “There is that baby with gold in her hair.” She was baptized on the first Sunday in Advent. She loved animals and Sunday School. She had a smile that could melt the coldest heart. She exuded Hope.
On Maundy Thursday, in the year 2000, Hope was sick. We skipped an out-of-town Easter trip. Finally, on Tuesday we took her in to the doctor, and (of course) she appeared well in his office. The doctor was old and wise, and did a CBC “just to be on the safe side.” He came back in the room and said, “I would get down on my knees and pray for this to not be true, but Hope has leukemia.”
Those words were like a hurricane bearing down on the coast, blowing sheet metal and nails. So our understanding of what it meant to hope, shifted.
The book Crazy Talk defines “Hope” as “the promise of a future worth the trouble it takes to get out of bed in the morning.” We knew Hope’s future—it was to grow up to be one of the 50,000. It was what got us up in the morning. It was what made us rewire our brain to understand pediatric oncology. It was what let us receive help, instead of give it.
One week before Thanksgiving, I woke up to hear my name yelled from a cross, or hell, or some terrible place. It was my husband yelling my name from Hope’s bedside. She died during the night. We woke up without Hope.
I think they came to the memorial service and sent cards–the seventeen we brought back from New Orleans. When I looked at them, somehow I could still recognize a thing called hope, even when it seemed the gravity that held Hope to the earth had failed.
Our world kept spinning. The cold of shock, thaws to the pain of grief. It is hard to salvage much from that time, except the air God created continued to fill our lungs. Then our shared world changed. The whole country was brought to its knees and shared grief that had become our “new normal” on September 11, 2001. Four days later our family welcomed a new daughter, Summer Grace.
As the storm surge of a hurricane flooded New Orleans, I cried. The Super Dome had been a sacred place for the 50,000, how could the hope have left even that place, too? They had scattered everywhere around the country, the 50,000. Could they not re-claim that holy ground and reach out to that broken community? Does the call for justice and kindness in youth, fade in adulthood?
Our world (mine and yours) has changed since the last time I was in New Orleans. But it is not a world of despair. To quote Johann von Staupitz speaking to Martin Luther, “Don’t you know that God commands you to hope?”
A new 50,000 (give or take) will gather in New Orleans in July 2009, and the new stories of hope will abound. New Orleans is a little step of independance–the kind of which leads young people beyond their status quo understanding and small home towns. They will change the city, help rebuild, bring tears to the eyes of tired, old men, sing, dance and walk. People will look to them and see hope.