Holocaust museum was the second stop on our itinerary.
We started the day with a soft sun rolling on the gentle hills on Mount Vernon. I strolled the ground. Andrew stole my phone and took pictures. My heart was at rest.
I mediated on how George Washington's greatest work was to step away from work and return home to rest in the gentle retreat of his lovely farm.
I had a beautiful post spun up in my mind about trusting God with our work and listening to the call to set it down. A call to humility but also a call to rest, to joy and to those things we love best of all.
But we got back on the bus and I steeled myself for the stop ahead.
I stopped watching Holocaust movies just before I started having kids. I often lost sleep for weeks when I saw one. This, I thought, might be harder.
But Andrew was with me. So I needed to be a parent first.
The experience is really well done. It is a story told fully. Even in the way you move through it. I walked with Andrew. He didn't back down. He watched the videos and looked at the pictures and read the captions.
I thought I would feel despair or overwhelm at the magnitude of the horror. I found myself angry. Angry at a boatful of Jews that tried to come to America and were turned away by the coast guard because we didn't want immigrants. Angry at a conference of nations that gathered to identify refuge for jews who needed it, but none was found. Angry at headlines in American newspapers that recognized there was a problem and debates about whether or not to bomb the gas chambers at Auchwitz.
Angry at the magnitude of the attrocity.
And I had a glimpse into the wrath of God.
A wrath that wells up from a deep sadness when as a parent you see your children doing something gravely self destructive.
I held my anger and sadness as I got back on the bus. Here we are, in holy week, in the darkest part of the story.
I felt like I had just watched the crucifixion. It wasn't nails that held Jesus to that cross.
I flipped open my phone to post a few of Andrew's mount Vernon pics to Instagram and I saw a post about the crucifixion. Bold letters.
"REJECTED AND ALONE"
But when I swiped left. It was a series of images with captions that reminded me. Jesus wasn't alone. The women were there. The women stayed. They held love that didn't look away.
And my whole thought changed. It is an act of love to witness suffering and not back down even if there is nothing you can do.
There is human suffering now. Could I have courage to not avert my eyes? Is that an act of love?
The day moved on as discomfort settled in my belly. It's holy week. It's uncomfortable. I let it sit.
We spent the rest of the day on lighter subjects. We went to the natural history museum. Andrew and his friends looked at rocks for an hour. We ate dinner. We sat at the Jefferson memorial watching lightning roll across the sky behind the Washington monument. It was warm and breezy. The kids were content and we all shared a beautiful moment.
We loaded back into the bus just after 8:30 and the teachers played an April fools joke on the kids. There were belly laughs. We got back to our rooms and the kids gathered in the hallway. They were hungry for togetherness. Someone started a pushup competition as a way to "wear themselves out. "
Curled up against the wall in the middle of the fray was the darling 8th teacher. Tired but deeply happy. She sat and bore witness to joy.
It was like a moment at a family reunion. After all the formal dinners and conversations. When shoes are off and all that's left is togetherness.
That is love too.
Love bears witness to suffering.
Love also bears witness to joy.
The women who buried him, were also the first the witness resurrection.
May love grant us courage to witness our siblings who suffer. And may love grant us a yearning for togetherness that births spontaneous joy.
