#26acts

When a tragedy strikes, I'm highly susceptible to becoming engulfed in its details.

I'm not saying this makes sense, or that it makes me great, or that it's part of my charm, or that it makes me kind.

(None of that is true because I'm so very human, and actually, becoming a big mess when people you don't know are hurt is really not that desirable of a trait.)

Basically, I'm just a bundle of anxiety on a normal day. So on a tragic day, I get incredibly worked up not over the grand scheme of things and how the world will play out in the end, but over how people are dealing with all they're suddenly faced with here on earth.

Who fed the babies whose mamas and daddies were in the World Trade Center towers (tummies in 2001, hearts and souls present-day)? Where are the Haitians sleeping years after tent cities became their norm? How is the landscape of Indonesia looking since that horrific tsunami? Are victims of the tragic tornadoes that struck Missouri and Alabama and Mississippi and so many other places able to pay their bills now? Who's taking care of the caregivers?

These are my worries -- or as my Grandma Johnson used to say, "great concerns" -- after tragedy strikes.

So when precious innocence was gruesomely ripped from Sandy Hook Elementary at the hands of a gunman, I wept with the rest of the world. Hard.

And at the same time, I fervently hoped the appropriate grief counseling resources were being dispatched to Newtown so those sweet survivors could, in a healthy way, learn how to process their t-ball teammate or first big school teacher or lunch buddy being gone forever.

Another part of my process post-tragedy is asking myself how I show my world love, and in this case how I watch for warning signs and loneliness, and how I'm prepared to protect others if a need arises.

Just to clarify: I in no way thinks this makes me unique. At all. In fact, Ann Curry proved it doesn't.

A longtime fan of random acts of kindness, I was thrilled when the journalist suggested the world grieve for Newtown's losses in a proactive, healthy manner. But her recommendation to commit an act of kindness in honor of each of the 26 victims whose lives were lost that day? Well, that idea was just gold.

For a while, #26acts and #26actsofkindness regularly trended on twitter. I loved being able to look up what others were doing in honor of the unsuspecting victims and their families.

I did my 26 acts, give a few (because who can stop after a while?), initially very arrogantly not expecting to feel differently than I usually do when showing kindness.

Did I ever have that all wrong.

Something about this was different for me -- tougher, even -- than a random act of kindness, or just being polite. I'm not wealthy, and not all of my acts involved money, but because of what we know about the situation surrounding this and other school shootings, I did intentionally try to show kindness to the seemingly isolated... lonely... alone... distanced. And it was truly random kindness, not something anyone could ever thank me for. (Maybe all this was in Ann Curry's parameters, which I missed. So I made up my own rules. Anyway.)

What I took away after this was not a smug sense of how awesomely fabulous rebekah is, or even a hope that the recipient might "pay it forward," but rather how strange it felt to step into someone's life, observe a bit of unhappiness, throw some brightness their way, and never be thanked for it.

For the record, it was scarier than rock wall climbing. And I'm NOT athletic.

I never feared for my life or safety, but I was a little afraid for my...inner security blanket? The one that keeps me warm and fuzzy when I need a comforting touch to remind me that I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, etc.? Maybe that was it.

So. Extremely uncomfortable assignment for this Pollyanna, but great insight into what we Christians probably should've been thinking when we saw those WWJD bracelets in their heyday. And great insight into how yes, I can strive to change my world whose players' reactions I see, but also those who I'll never see. And who aren't at all gracious to me. And who don't have time for me. And who are probably the loneliest, and unhappiest, and least grateful among us.

So, kudos to Ann Curry for turning what is typically an anxiety-ridden situation into a sociology report for me, and a glimpse into the little rebekah inside my head, and the recesses of my heart.

May the #26acts live well beyond their numbers, well beyond this year and decade, well past our lifetimes.

To Haiti -- from Mississippi, with love.

Political cartoonist Marshall Ramsey summed up Mississippians' sympathy for Haiti very well:

Aching and thirsty.

I made a very stupid, momentary choice to look away for just a second while driving to work yesterday and totaled my car.

Also, my year-long allergy issues are finally being resolved with the right mix of medication.

Why blog this? Truth is, today has left me very, very sore, and very, very thirsty. I cannot get enough water to drink, and all the ibuprofen in CVS's warehouse isn't cutting this achiness.

But I can't even bring myself to feel bad about that.

Not just because (thank God) no one was seriously injured, but because there is no way soreness from an airbag can compare to what the people who have actually survived Haiti's magnitude-7 earthquake are feeling right now.  And that's just physical. The emotional toll of seeing hundreds of corpses on the streets, not knowing where loved ones are or if they're alive...impossible to imagine.

And yes, I'm thirsty. But I can turn on my faucet (in my heated, clean, safe apartment) and get as much water as I need. Even if I could not do that, I could drive in my car to buy bottled water, or probably find a friend that would help. Reports from Haiti say people are fearful of dying of thirst.

Yesterday, I smelled airbag for the first time. There was powdery residue all around me from whatever's in an airbag, and I wasn't sure where my glasses were at first. But I found my glasses, and the powder didn't stay on me. Many Haitian survivors are stark white with the dusty remains of the buildings that have crumbled around them.

Some of my friends and coworkers have relatives who are sick, or injured, or in some state of unwell. I hate this for them. Bad is bad, no matter how you cut it. But my friend Skye, who is doing her culinary internship on the island of Provos, works with people whose families are in Haiti, just 90 miles away. These coworkers of hers are on Provos to make more money that they can send home to their families. And now, they have no way of contacting their loved ones to see how they are...or even if they still are.

My closest brush with destruction was when Hurricane Katrina devastated the Mississippi Gulf Coast where I grew up. There were a few days when we weren't sure about some family members' homes, and there are still changes in landscape, missing landmarks, and stark differences in how and where people live that are  constant reminders of that life-changing storm.

I didn't live on the coast at the time, though. I was three hours away in Jackson, Mississippi, and it was hard to come by, but I had access to gasoline and water to get to my family within the week.

I'm not sure if that's going to be an option for Haiti.

This situation is obviously weighing on me heavily. There are ways to help, and many of them are detailed on an NPR site that was posted this morning. I know more relief efforts have been enacted since this morning, and there will be tons of ways that we can help from where we are.

I'm saving the best way to help for last: prayer. No matter what the skeptics say, prayer does change things. Aside from the celestial benefits, it strengthens and solidifies the one who's praying, and -- pun intended -- Lord knows we occasionally need it.

Please do what you can. And be grateful for what you have. I know I am.

Case in point: I never thought I'd be saying I'm thankful for a totaled (new to me) car.

What a reality check.