I remember I went heavy on the eyeliner that morning. Something about strolling the streets of New York City, and one whole night away from life as usual, just me and my husband, called for extra eyeliner. And I remember where I was when I received the call, in the kitchen, when it popped up on my phone: Newtown Public Schools.
I assumed someone was sick. Figures, I thought. The one time was when I had plans away.
And now here is where things get interesting, and by interesting I mean confusing, fuzzy, and unclear, because from this point on, from the shocking news that there had been a shooting at my children’s elementary school, to the panicked race to find them, to trembling knees on hard cement in front of a statue of the Blessed Mother, to the vigil Mass where we were approached by a news reporter, my husband and I will tell you two different stories. The details will not match. I will insist we did one thing, and he will insist we did another.
If you have ever experienced trauma, you understand what I am talking about.
Memory loss. It is a survival skill and a defense mechanism that steps into high-trauma situations in order to protect oneself from psychological damage. Unfortunately, what it could not prevent us from were the doubters, the evil-doers, and the suspicious.
But before we get into that, you need to know this:
My sister showed up with a large triptych of Our Lady of Guadalupe, her feast just two days before the mass shooting. And she placed her on my kitchen island, looked me in the eyes, and said, “She stood.”
In the face of unimaginable grief, Mary stood.
It is because of her that I am standing today. But make no mistake, my friend, I crumbled; shattered even, on our tile floor, into what felt like a million irreparable shards. Our names were slandered. Our privacy was invaded. Rumors were rampant. And this is when Laura Phelps stopped writing and went into hiding. This is when I told my husband that under no circumstances were we to speak or fight back because you can not win a fight with crazy. I was undone and afraid for my sanity. Afraid for my children. Flat out afraid.
And by afraid, I mean paralyzed by fear.
Call me naive, but I had no idea that “hoaxers” and “conspiracy theorists” were a thing. I had no idea that people could take a heartbreaking tragedy and turn it into a diabolical carnival for some sick enjoyment. And I had no idea how powerful the enemy’s weapon of confusion could be, the damage it does, and the lives it destroys. It’s ironic. Just a few days earlier, with too much eyeliner, I longed to escape, eager to get away from life as usual. And now? Life as usual was all that I longed for. Life as usual is far greater than a life of chaos and confusion.
And confusion is never of the Father.
In this terrible time when people doubted the goodness of God and little made sense, one thing became clear: the devil is real. The news is not to be trusted. And this world desperately needs Jesus.
And the surest way to Jesus?
Well, that would be Mary.