Yad Vashem

Cold and still, the room echoes more than sound. Gentle, striking strings pluck my heart and draw my tears. Times like this I feel no right to defend myself. No desire to recover. I hurt and rejoice in the strangest ways. Harsh and happy quotes flash before my eyes. Some cut. No explanation can justify the years and fears behind the words. Some give hope of healing for myself and them. Though lost in this canyon of trial there is a light at the end. It takes conscious effort to not punch the faces of men I cannot understand, foolish cowards too scared of their own work to let themselves live. Yet I cry most at the survivors and saviors. And I desire my own. A hand to hold. The warmth of another soul. Another heart. A hug reminding of smiles. Anything to break this cold I cannot feel but which I still embrace. I hope my empty smiles offend none. They are more to reassure myself. This may be my hatred of being a man. Some days I need to cry and mourn, but I feel my duty is to protect and comfort others, to give what I am so desperate for. A leader cannot break down else he or she gives permission for others to do so. Is this manhood? Adulthood? Parenthood? Growing up? Responsibility? I don't take these things well.

We went to Yad Vashem, the Holocaust museum in Jerusalem today. These were my thoughts while sitting in the last room. It was tense. Well, I was tense. I started thinking of a young man, whose face and name is lost to me, who I attended Especially for Youth with many summers ago. He comforted me during a time I wanted to comfort him. It was just a back scratch, but just that simple contact meant a lot. It also made me think of Alyssa and the last time I went to a Holocaust museum. I do not know why I take such things so poorly. Is it even poorly? Maybe that is a terrible word for it.

I am glad to be in a world  that ennobles sacrifice and recognizes lost. It is difficult, but it is worth it.