Instead, it gave rise to something entirely different. In the area near where the three children were killed lived a housewife. She heard the thud as the car crashed into the fence, hurried to the spot, and she took in the whole horror of the scene. The aunt of the three murdered children similarly also soon took in the aftermath of the horror.
The two women came together and acted intuitively, as their hearts dictated. They started to go from door to door on the actual street where the tragedy had occurred and nearby streets, going to the homes of Protestants and Catholics alike. They also organized marches, one of which was to the burial sites of the three dead children mentioned above.
About 10, Protestant and Catholic women made that march together. Their message was clear…The cup of horrors had now run over: the time had come when the ordinary man and woman must rise in protest against such senselessness. It was no longer a question of political attitudes or religious convictions.
There was only one remedy: the people themselves must cry halt. We must build our future on peace and cooperation.
First the street, and then the neighborhood, and then the city of Belfast, and then the surrounding cities and towns, and then the counties of Ulster, and then the nations of Ireland and of the United Kingdom, heard their simple, heartening message of reconciliation. As a result, neighbors and countrymen started to shake hands and started to talk together, to live together, and to build together. Soon the entire world heard the message too, because the two women, Betty Williams and Mairead Corrigan, were awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in a ceremony in Olso, Norway some forty years ago.
The speech I read was the speech awarding them the prize. They never heeded the difficulty of their task: they merely tackled it because they were so convinced that this precisely was what was needed. There was no talk here of ingenious theories, of shrewd diplomacy or pompous declarations.
Our circumstances are painfully real. The medical community accepted that grieving is natural and human. Except for this: Dad, there is joy in the place that you left. I dreamed we were in a small groceries business store. She was trying to do a lot more in the physical world than that tired old body could handle. Both of those books are beautifully written and imprtant, but are by doctors.
No, their contribution was a far better one: a courageous, unselfish act that proved an inspiration to thousands, that lit a light in the darkness, and that gave fresh hope to people who believed that all hope was gone. This is a remarkable story, but not for the obvious reasons.
edutoursport.com/libraries/2020-09-03/706.php I felt sad about my father all the time. When I closed my eyes at night I saw him lashed to a raft in a storm-tossed sea: dark rain, dark waves, my father crashing down again and again as he waited to drown. He was part of the group of men who brought Charles Manson in from the desert.
He was the guy who took in Sirhan Sirhan the night Bobby Kennedy was assassinated. After his retirement he often spent three hours a day working out. My father died last month at 83 when my sister and I were on the plane, coming out to say goodbye for what felt like the 57th time. There was a message on my phone from my husband when we landed. What I felt when I heard the news was joy. I had told Felice that I would feel bad when my father died. My stepmother, crying in a roomful of friends, said she wanted him to be there for us.
My sister and I went into the bedroom together, and there he was, his head tilted back on the pillow, his eyes closed, his mouth slightly open. We kissed his lovely face and cried and held each other, then we looked at him again. There was something funny going on. My sister, who is a more tender person than I am, quicker to cry, leaned forward.
WHEN we went to sit among the crying people in the other room, I was stunned by the explosion of happiness spreading through my chest.
Of course I was glad for my father, the end of his suffering, his ticket off the raft, but it was more than that. I was glad for my stepmother even as she sat beside me in her fiery grief because she was still healthy and young.
In time she would go out with her friends again, take a trip, read a book, waste an afternoon looking at shoes. I felt glad for my sister and for myself, that any bit of extra time and money we had would no longer be offered up in the name of filial devotion.
I did love him. He was brave and funny and smart. He could also be difficult even in the full bloom of health, and he often drove me witless. I was happy for all of us that this hideous struggle, which had extended past the most unreasonable expectations, was finally over. I was trying my best not to glow. I stayed on in California for a while to be with my stepmother.