It’s been a rough week for law enforcement. Five officers have been killed in the line of duty in this past week.
Maybe you’d think that a law enforcement wife gets used to the news of officers injured or killed (250 officers shot and 59 deaths this year alone), but you never do. At least, I never have. I avoid the news because my heart can’t handle the constant bleeding. I see the black band over my husband’s badge (I don’t think it’s been off more than one day at a time this year). That has to be enough for me.
This last week though, it hasn’t just been rough nationally. It’s been rough locally.
A couple Sundays back, we woke to news that the local black lives matter movement in our city had used social media to get an officer’s address. They looked through pictures of his family and the places they frequent. They did this in an attempt to protest in front of his house and, well, harass him and his family. (By the way, I have no idea if this was officially or even unofficially sanctioned by the chapter, but it happened nevertheless.) We were advised to remove our names and locations from all social media.
Later that day (in an unrelated incident), we got the news that a deputy was slain one county over. He was ambushed while alone and executed at point-blank range. Executed.
My heart doesn’t even know what to do with that kind of hatred. But I can tell you these stories cut my heart right open.
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A few days ago, Mike took an overtime shift. I couldn’t shake this overwhelming sense that I needed to pray for him. I pray for him every night he’s working, usually with my kids at bedtime. But on this night, I just knew I needed to pray. Like pray, pray. You know?
The next day after he’d slept the long night off, he told me about his shift. He was involved in a situation that could have gone at least ten different ways—none of which would have been good. But it didn’t turn out any of those ways. It was fine. He was fine.
In a moment where he had seconds to make life-altering decisions with limited information, he used sound judgment. He made the right call.
This isn’t the first time this has happened. Thus far, every time I have felt that call to pray over Mike, the next day my husband has a story for me. One where he’s fine, but he faced some kind of situation that could have gone so wrong so fast.
Part of me rejoices. I mean, I know that God is actively watching over my family. It’s like God is saying to me: “See, Amanda? I am with Mike. I watch over your family. I know your comings and your goings, and I will be with you.”
But there’s this other part of me that feels vulnerable.
We use the phrase “hits close to home” when tragedy strikes close. Maybe it misses our home, but it hits our faith anyways. It’s this moment where we are looking pain and loss right in the face and realizing our faith doesn’t keep us from hardships, it preserves us through them.
