My eyes, glued to the scene. The dust of the debris invaded my nose. My hands wanted to prevent the sounds of the sirens and the cries, but I couldn’t move. 1,700 miles away from Oklahoma City, I was there only by the waves of the TV, but I had walked that place, breathed the same air as those people. “Oh God, no!”
Floors dangled, wires sparked, glass fell. “Did I know, by name or face, anyone in that building?”
Often, I reached for the phone but fear would not let me dial. So I stayed, stared and mesmerized as reality sank in.
Sitting among a group of peers, in true “round-table” fashion, each had a story of hollow wombs and vacant arms coupled with the slightly unconventional way of filling the desire, deep-seated need, for children. Some early in their journey, others veterans of the system, we each divulged details of the miraculous way God had built our families. Conversation was deep, enjoyable and even beneficial until one comment stopped my heart, to which I mentally had to force myself to breathe. Three words were uttered that crushed my spirit, heart and soul and provoked me to evaluate my faith.