This past weekend in a small town southeast of Seattle, Josh Powell killed himself and his two young sons. The news crawled along the bottom of the television screen during the pre-Super bowl coverage on a dark red banner. This story has monopolized the news in the Pacific Northwest off and on since Powell’s wife disappeared in Utah in 2009. Being a cop, I don’t tend to react as strongly as many people do to this kind of news because it’s so much a part of the culture of policing. We constantly encounter people at the worst moment of their lives and there is often pressure to maintain a certain stoicism in the face of abject tragedy.
It is often a challenge to maintain one’s humanity while investigating horrible things, while looking at death, grief and violence perpetuated by the people who are supposed to love you unconditionally. Many of us create a coat of armor, a rigid exterior that we hope is un-penetrable but we suspect is deeply flawed. We have that suspicion because even as hard as we try to not let it affect us, we can’t control that subconscious troll that creeps into our dreams in the darkest moments of night. It is impossible to see these kinds of things without being profoundly changed.
As I sat in the comfort of my home on Sunday, I thought of the first responders arriving at the Powell house fully engulfed after a violent explosion. And I couldn’t help but think of the day they thought they had ahead of them – football at the fire station, answering a few aid calls, making dinner for the crew. And I thought about the neighbors and the families and of course, about the two children killed and how life can change in a flash of fiery rage when one man’s delusion consumed something so innocent and loved so no one else could have it.
And I tried to have compassion for that man because that’s what I’m striving for with my practice. And although I didn’t quite make it there because I think this would qualify as advanced compassion, in my humble opinion, I have committed myself to try.
Comments
It's such a special thing,
It's such a special thing, and a hard thing, to witness situations and events, most people don't see. I'd often reflect on that if I visit a friend's son in jail, or certainly did when visiting my own father in a psychiatric hospital. When someone tells me their parent or sibling is homeless. or their child is in rehab,or someone in their family has been murdered, i think of the worlds going on that most people, with their daily concerns, don't touch. I think you're right, it is compassion, however imperfect our own might seem, that is the only way to have a heart large enough to contain even this, truly a heart as wide as the world.
A Special Thing Indeed
I often wonder how you do it day after day. I know that in many circles you are considered the 'compassion expert' and with that, must come a certain degree of expectation from other people. I often take solace in your example of missing a plane and how it will all work out eventually. That's my mantra these days. Thank you for your comment.
Debra
Thank you for your service.
Thank you for your service. May you be happy and safe.
Thank you
Caroline,
Thank you for your kind words. They are appreciated more than you know.
Debra
Thank you
Thank you Debra...seems so small...Thought of you
as I watched the Powell saga on American TV earlier
this week and some of the interviews. Thank you for
service as well as your fellow officers...especially
those ongoinly involved in the investigation. All too
often we may winge (as we say here in Australia) about
negative things but forget to smile or say a simple Thank You.
Keeping you all in my prayers.
Lynne
Brisbane, Australia (before that Vancouver, Canada)
Thanks
Lynne,
Thank you for your reply. We in law enforcement get a lot of negative attention, some of it deservedly, some not so much. It goes with the job. I just always try to see people as human beings worthy of being treated with respect.
Thanks again.
Debra