I had to put this into practice on December 14, 2012, when the unthinkable happened. My six-year-old son was murdered in his first-grade classroom at Sandy Hook Elementary School alongside nineteen classmates and six educators. It was one of the worst mass murders in US history. In the midst of the powerlessness, horror, and shock we all felt, nothing could change the fact that I could not control the former student who killed all those innocent people. The only way I could take my personal power back would be how I chose to respond to the tragedy. Ultimately, I responded by starting a worldwide movement to choose love through a nonprofit organization I created in honor of my son—the Jesse Lewis Choose Love Movement. Getting there was indeed a process.
Traumatized and beyond comfort at first, I was drawn to the words on our kitchen chalkboard that Jesse must have written the same morning he was killed. Perhaps with spiritual awareness, Jesse, in his best first-grade handwriting, had printed: Nurturing Healing Love. (He spelled them phonetically, as Norurting Helinn Love. After all, he was just learning to write.) I knew immediately that if the shooter had been able to give and receive Nurturing Healing Love that the tragedy would never have happened.
We felt comforted by his message and realized it was a prescription for compassion. Despite Jesse’s death, those three words reminded me of all that I still had. So I started with gratitude. Despite having lost one of my precious sons, Jesse’s older brother, JT, and I still had each other. We live on a small farm with horses, chickens, and dogs that we love. Because of the public nature of our tragedy, it seemed as if the world could feel our pain and everyone wanted to help us heal. We received cards from around the world, most from children, and all from loving people who wished us well. They told us they were holding us in their hearts and praying for us. As our friends and family gathered around us, I felt blessed and loved. We were thankful for the support, and we still are.
Intuitively, I knew that someone who did something so heinous must have been in a tremendous amount of pain. I tried to put myself in his shoes by learning about his life and the suffering he endured. That process helped me to come to a place of forgiveness. When I made the choice to forgive, I remember feeling what seemed like one hundred pounds of anger and resentment lift off my shoulders.
* * *
Forgiveness became a key to my ability to heal and be resilient, allowing me to think more clearly, positively, and productively.
* * *
I realized it has nothing to do with forgetting, condoning, or being able to hold someone accountable. Forgiveness is simply cutting the cord that attaches you to pain, and suffering, and anger. It is a gift that you give to yourself.
By choosing to focus on being grateful for what I did have and going through the process of forgiveness, I found the strength to step outside my own pain and help others. Instead of focusing internally on my personal situation, I chose to seek answers. I wanted to become part of the solution that could have prevented the tragedy at Sandy Hook Elementary and that would help prevent future tragedies. I found extensive research showing that learning how to have healthy relationships, manage emotions, and be resilient—in other words, social and emotional intelligence—was the number one indicator of a child’s future success. I created a program called the Choose Love Enrichment Program that teaches young people everywhere in the world these essential life skills and how to choose love for themselves and others.
The program is free and has steadily gained worldwide momentum as a movement. Choose Love has been an incredible adventure and has shown me how it is possible to heal myself by giving to others and how much we receive when we do champion peace over violence and love over hate. When we help others, we are ultimately helping ourselves. We call this compassion in action.
When the gunman entered Jesse’s classroom, his gun jammed. During the short delay, Jesse courageously directed his friends to run, and ultimately saved the lives of nine of his classmates while he remained at his teacher’s side, where he died. Jesse left us a powerful formula for choosing love in any situation:
* * *
Courage + Gratitude +
Forgiveness + Compassion
in Action = Choosing Love
* * *
When we thoughtfully respond in any situation, circumstance, or interaction by choosing love, we are happier and more resilient; we have better relationships; and we are more likely to make positive and pro social choices.
The Choose Love Movement started at Jesse’s funeral when I spoke to those in attendance. It is likely, I shared that day, that the whole tragedy began with an angry thought in the shooter’s head. The amazing thing to me is that an angry thought can be changed. I asked everyone that day to consciously change one angry thought into a loving thought each day. This, I offered, is how we become that small pebble of kindness that sends out a ripple effect, creating a safer, more peaceful, and loving world.
Change one thought a day, I repeated, and choose love.
* * *
People reported back that just by doing that one simple thing, their lives were changed for the better, forever, and our ripples continue to spread more and more around the globe.
* * *
Within us, we have the courage that Jesse showed in his final moments: the courage to be kind; to do what is right; to speak up; and to be our authentic selves. We have the courage to be grateful, even when things are not going our way; the courage to forgive, even when the person who hurt us is not sorry; and the courage to step outside our own pain and help others.
We all have the courage to choose love!
Scarlett, you define bravery and kindness. I had to start and stop reading this story several times. In all of our lives, every day, we are faced with a choice of how to respond to the things happening to us and around us—the mundane and the life changing. To say I am in awe of your commitment to live in a posture of gratitude, compassion, and nurturing and healing love is the understatement of my life, but I thank you. Your movement will save lives, and honor one very, very special one. Please visit the Jesse Lewis Choose Love Movement to join Scarlett’s mission to help the world live love a little better, every day.
13
THE NINE-YEAR-OLD HERO
HANA MANGAT
There are moments when strangers’ lives collide as if by accident, and even though they may never see each other again, they’re changed forever. These can be moments when true character is revealed, often through acts of kindness and generosity on the part of unlikely heroes who step forward in the nick of time.
Not long ago, I was a witness to that kind of moment. It was about 1:00 a.m. on one of my last free nights of the summer and, together with my mom and dad, I had just gotten off a very long flight back from the West Coast. Half asleep, my parents and I exited the gate and started to walk through the empty airport toward baggage claim. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw one of our fellow passengers leave the restroom and suddenly fall to the ground.
We immediately ran toward him. My parents, who are doctors by profession, dropped everything and immediately began trying to figure out what had happened. As they asked him questions and searched for a medical information card, the crew from our flight departed the plane and joined our impromptu medical response team.
My parents determined that the man was diabetic and in major need of sugar. As everyone nearby frantically rifled through their luggage for something sweet, the only thing we could seem to find was a protein bar with a minimal amount of chocolate chips. In a barren airport, with security and paramedics taking far too long to respond, we worried that it would not be enough to save him.
Just then, a young boy—named Mecca, as we learned later—arrived at the scene with the flight attendants who had been escorting him to his parents. In the midst of the frantic feeding of the protein bar, Mecca quietly announced: “I have a Snickers in my Lunchables!” No one on the frontlines must have heard him, caught up as they were in the chaos of trying to save a stranger’s life, an
d nobody responded to him. However, Mecca knew what to do. He dug deep into his colorful backpack, opened his snack, and pulled out a Snickers. He then handed it to my father, who was holding the patient on his side while my mother tried to manage with the protein bar.
Within seconds of the Snickers replacing the protein bar, the man regained consciousness, and it was clear to everyone that Mecca, a fourth grader living in Washington, D.C., had saved this stranger’s life!
My parents, who have been practicing medicine for almost thirty years, were in awe of the initiative that Mecca took. Afterward my father pointed out, “It was wonderful—very rewarding that a nine-year-old knew what to do and wanted to get involved.”
Mecca’s mother told us that he has always loved to help people. In fact, Mecca’s father would always remind him that his middle name, Naseer, means “helper.”
No one could have guessed that earlier that night, Mecca had just been through an ordeal of his own with his flight experience. We came to find out that when Mecca’s father’s flight was unexpectedly canceled, impromptu accommodations had to be made, forcing Mecca to fly from Oakland, California, to Washington, D.C., alone. He had never flown by himself before and admitted, “I was very nervous about it.”
His mother, Kiki Morgain, told us how Mecca’s grandmother had filled his backpack with Lunchables to make him a little less anxious. “We worried that he was going to eat all the candy on the flight,” Ms. Morgain laughed.
When we told Mecca’s parents of his heroic actions, they smiled from ear to ear. Knowing he was nervous about flying alone, they were surprised that he’d saved some candy and were even more surprised that he was able to think about the candy during the emergency he encountered as he got off the plane.
Mecca shrugged, as if to say helping came naturally. “I’m just really, really happy that the man is okay.” The next day, he started fourth grade and excitedly told his principal about what had happened. His fourth-grade teacher joked with Mecca, telling him that she sometimes gets low blood sugar and might need Mecca to come to the rescue!
As time goes on, I remain inspired by the experience of witnessing a nine-year-old save a stranger’s life, and it still amazes my parents, too. In a very messy, chaotic, and frankly scary world, Mecca’s sincerity continues to make us smile.
* * *
My mom put it best:
“To help someone, to be kind to someone, is a basic human instinct. In general, people try to suppress that instinct. However, it is very evident in young hearts and should be encouraged more and more.”
* * *
What a helper indeed—way to go, Mecca! I do my best to notice the experiences of the people around me and ask myself if I can help lessen their pain or improve their days. If we could all be a little more like Mecca and pay attention to the people around us and ask, What do we have that other people might need? the world would be a better place. Some days, it could be a candy bar that saves the life of a fellow traveler, and other days, it could be a smile to a stranger that has the same effect. Thank you, Hana, your parents, and Mecca for being the helpers.
14
LEARNING TO HEAL A BROKEN HEART
KIRAH HORNE
A miracle.
As far back as I can remember, that was the word my parents used to describe me. And, at least until the second grade, I believed them.
I can remember looking at myself in the mirror as a little girl and, instead of being self-conscious about the raised scar that spreads over most of my chest—from just above my ribs up to my collarbone—I felt lucky.
The scar was a daily reminder of the open-heart surgery I underwent as a five-year-old to correct a rare birth defect—and proof of the miracle that the problem was detected before it was too late. My parents were told that if the doctor hadn’t heard my heart murmur, then by the time I turned twelve I would have literally dropped dead one day in the middle of playing volleyball—or something like it—and no one would have known why.
My parents pointed out that part of the miracle of my situation had to do with the fact that I was a shy kid who didn’t talk a lot. So it was normal at the doctor’s office for me to be quiet—one factor that may have made it easier for him to hear the murmur.
Back then, of course, I didn’t understand the severity of my condition and what wound up being two surgeries in one day. The first operation was to correct the defect, and the second was to remove a needle that had been left in my heart by accident. Like most kids, my focus was on getting out of the hospital as soon as possible and returning to my friends at preschool. My parents never said that I could have died, only that I had come through the ordeal with flying colors.
The feeling I had of being lucky, or special even (but in a good way), stayed with me for the next couple of years. The scar, sometimes reddish and angry-looking, other times a ghostly white, was something I grew used to wearing as a badge of honor. Even if I didn’t show it to many people, my scar was no big deal—just a part of me that I couldn’t think to see as something negative.
But not everyone saw the miracle.
In second grade, after making a new close friend that year, I felt comfortable enough with her to talk about my life-saving surgery at age five. “See?” I said, pointing out one of the top branches of the scar that could be seen over the collar of my shirt.
“Ewwwww!” she shrieked. “Get away from me! You’re sick!”
* * *
The power of those words hit me harder than I could measure. They were words, unfortunately, that I, as an eight-year-old, took deeply to heart. Though I had no words yet to describe her treatment of me, this was the first of many times I would be bullied over the next several years.
* * *
Looking back, I don’t blame her for what she said. She reacted as many children might. But the hurt was tough to erase. Worse was that, all of a sudden, I became increasingly self-conscious about my scar.
From then on, I didn’t want anyone to see it ever again.
For months, even years, I kept playing the words “You’re sick!” over and over again in my head. The miracle—the one thing that had saved my life—was now a source of shame.
As I got into middle school, kids stopped bullying me about my heart surgery scar and moved on to other things. They’d point out my quirks, mocking me for being gullible and naive—and for seeking refuge in the music of Lady Gaga, a role model and an inspiration to me, whose profound lyrics helped me through some terribly dark times.
Much to my shock, in the eighth grade, my musical taste and choice of role models earned the disdain of my favorite teacher, who didn’t think my views lived up to his standards. When he called me “Freak” in front of the entire class, I could barely breathe.
What? He. Just. Called. Me. A. F-F-F-FREEEEAKKK? Why? Why?
This offhand slam was from an adult, in front of all my peers. This was in a place where I was supposed to feel safe. Now I couldn’t even escape the harsh words of a teacher—no longer my favorite—who had made me feel very much unsafe.
“Freak” cut me to the core, like a sword going through my body, slicing me even more because it came from an adult who we all thought was cool, in front of all my classmates. What will they think of me now? The question burned in my mind, adding fuel to the fire of anxiety already burning inside.
A turbulent period followed.
After that incident, I began having daily panic attacks, most acute when I was in that class. The panic episodes were emotionally draining, and I felt emptier after every single one of them. Soon I began to build up the emotional scar tissue of just not caring about anything. Before long, the attacks began to hurt my grades. Never had I failed a class before, but I ended up with an F in algebra that year and had to retake it as a freshman in high school. Instead of recognizing that I was suffering from an anxiety disorder, I assumed this meant I wasn’t intelligent.
In my downward spiral, I was harder on myself than anyone else could have been, call
ing myself names inside my head, which stressed me out so much, I was constantly sick. Over the next three years, I lost many close friends. It wasn’t that they didn’t care, but in reality, they had their own problems and didn’t need mine on top of theirs.
The pressure in my chest became constant. The feeling of suffocation was all-consuming. Before I hit rock bottom, I tried to pull myself up. Nothing made me feel better. At one point, I stopped eating. That was probably the lowest point in my life. As much as I wanted to give up, I never did.
Whenever anyone asked, “Hey, are you okay?” I’d shrug and say, “I’m fine!”
Maybe I was good at faking it. Many people who know me pretty well still don’t know how low I sank. My reason for keeping everything inside was that I didn’t want anyone to see me as weak or incapable of pulling myself together. The irony is that by doing so, I denied myself the help I desperately needed.
Today I know that there are lots of resources available for people who struggle with anxiety, depression, and similar issues (or ones that are even worse). Let me just add, dear reader, that if you’re struggling in silence, I encourage you to seek out those resources. Help really is available!
Sadly, in those days I somehow didn’t know that I could even ask for help. Most of the time I was so busy feeling worthless that it felt as though I were drowning. At fourteen, I felt myself crashing into a complete mental breakdown. All I wanted was for it to end.
How could I ever reach out to anyone for help when it seemed the entire world was against me?
Channel Kindness Page 6