Every time I think about Japan’s recent crisis I get this sick feeling in my stomach. It’s the sort of feeling I got a few weeks ago when I read about the New Zealand quake. But worse.
The news that gets filtered to us just gets worse and worse and worse. The headlines today about over a thousand bodies washing up on shore accompanied by photos like this of people grieving is heartbreaking. Nuclear power plant failures, millions of people facing a fourth night without water, food or heating in near-freezing temperatures in the northeast, the rising death, homeless and injured reports. It’s almost more than I can stand.
And I’m just a virtual spectator.
When the earthquake in Haiti happened last year, I didn’t talk to my children about it. I just didn’t want to tell them that hundreds of thousands of people had died, been injured and had their lives effected by a natural disaster. About two weeks after the quake hit my 6 year old came up to me with tears in his eyes and asked me why I hadn’t told him about what had happened to all of those people.
My only answer was that I didn’t want to. I just plain didn’t want to.
This time I’ve talked to all of my children about the earthquake and tsunami in Japan. They have been amazingly mature in their questions, and their desire to help in some way made me proud that they have the sort of hearts that make them hear about people they’ve never met and want to help.
It’s still heartbreaking though, and something that I wish didn’t need to be talked about. I wish, I wish, I wish.
I wish there was more that I could do for all of those families going without necessities, and family and friends.
I keep thinking about what we’d do in the same situation.
And those thoughts make me want to go back to bed. And cry.