Bridgewater Fair

I waited a day before commenting at length about the recent tragedy at my alma mater, Bridgewater College, in order to pray and gather my thoughts.  There were several reasons for this, but none more prevalent than my desire to ensure that what I had to share would be measured, meaningful, and most of all, from a place of healing rather than pain.  So here goes…

Tragedy and trauma are intrinsically linked; the former births the latter.  As I watched the news footage of the situation unfolding, scrambling to social media for additional info, it was trauma that I felt.  Now, keep in mind that it’s been two decades since I was a BC student and much has changed.  Driving through the campus last year I was struck by how built up it had become, practically unrecognizable from my time there.  But I noticed one thing that did remain the same, all these years later: Flory Hall.

In addition to the President’s and Academic Dean’s Offices, Flory Hall houses the Departments of History, Political Science, Foreign Language, and Education.  As a History/PolSci/French Major with teaching certifications for my undergrad, I pretty much spent 90% of my college experience in that building.  To quote Dickens, “I could walk it blindfolded.”  So when I watched the WHSV reporter give updates with my beloved stomping ground as his backdrop, police presence and yellow caution tape littering the storied landscape, I quite literally hurt.

Yes, I hurt for the students, faculty, and staff facing this ordeal (at that point, we did not yet know about the shooting and subsequent deaths of the two campus police officers) and for their families who were desperate for information on their loved ones’ safety.  But, perhaps selfishly, I hurt for myself and those who came before.  For those of us who walked those sidewalks without fear or care in the world.  And for those who will walk those same paths in the future, robbed of the safety and security I took for granted.

I was hit by a wave of memories of my friends, some of whom have passed in the intervening years, and the good times we shared.  I was reminded of 9/11 and trying to process that within those very walls.  I thought of being the last teaching assistant to leave the building before Christmas break, enjoying the calm of an empty school building and the peaceful glow of a beautifully decorated Christmas tree as I walked out into the cold, dark December night.  I recalled the smell of the chalk dust that filled the classrooms that as yet were still unconverted to the more modern marker and smart boards that no doubt are in their place today.  I hurt for what felt like the violation of a place that, for four years, was not just my site of learning, but my home.  In so many ways, I grew up there.

With the news of the death of Officers J.J. Jefferson and John Painter, and the critical role they played in protecting the campus inhabitants, my hurt turned, temporarily, to anger.  More than that, it was rage.  Hence my need to delay public comment, as nothing good comes out of giving voice to unbridled, raw rage.

So I went to sleep the night of February 1 asking the Lord to direct my thoughts to how He sees this situation and what He would have me tell people.

I awoke the following morning with the song, “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day” in my head and have not been able to shake it since.  Based on the Longfellow poem, it recounts his inner turmoil processing the considerable trauma of the Civil War (and those traumas within his own life) with his innate belief that God is good and is our hope and future.  As I pondered the words, singing them to myself as I went about my morning routine, I found my disposition changing, softening.  Sure, I was still angry, frustrated, and hurting for all those involved, most notably the families of the slain heroes.  But the rage was gone, replaced by the incomparable peace and joy that passes all understanding.

It may seem bleak.  The darkness may seem so very invincible.  But as Longfellow discovered, “Then pealed the bells more loud and deep, ‘God is not dead, nor doth He sleep.  The wrong shall fail, the right prevail, with peace on earth, good will to men.’”

Good will.  Pass it on.

“Christmas Bells”
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
And made forlorn
The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
‘There is no peace on earth,’ I said;
For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!”

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
‘God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men.’

Matt Pandel
Dr. Matthew B. Pandel is a mental health consultant, theologian, and educator. He resides in the heart of the Shenandoah Valley with his wife, Carolyn.