On Earth as it (isn't) in Heaven

A beautiful reflection from AIA Volunteer Elizabeth Achilles regarding the tragedy last month:

On November 27th—Thanksgiving Day—from the backseat of a Mission of Hope SUV, Ali Jo said,

“Excuse me, Mama. I have to tell you something. I don’t actually know what homesick is. Do you really get sick when you love home so much?”

Apparently, I had been using that word liberally all November, and she was ready to set the record straight.

Like: Mom, what is this homesickness you speak of—and am I in danger of catching it?

I told her that our feelings live in our bodies, and sometimes we feel many of them at once. Some words help us capture the smoothie of mixed emotions—words like overwhelmed, heartbroken, or grieved.

“Homesick is a little bit like grief,” I said.

“You love, miss, and long for someone or something all at the same time—and yes, it can make your body hurt.”

That day, I found myself wondering about my own homesickness.

How was it that a distinctly American holiday felt so sacred on Dominican soil?

Locals cooking us Thanksgiving food. Meeting their families. Singing Goodness of God—first in Spanish, then in English.

The following week, we flew from one home (Hispaniola Island) to another (Rhode Island), only to be reminded that neither is truly home.

Because there is nothing quite like a mass shooting to remind us of this truth:

This. is. not. our. home.

November 27th felt like a thin place—a moment when the veil between heaven and earth felt paper-thin.

December 13th was the opposite.

Thick. Dense. Opaque.

The thickest kind of thick place.

It was one thick thing to have a shooter prowling our neighborhood.

It was another horrifically thick thing to have a fatal attack on our students.

We know student-athletes who were in the room with the shooter, and others just two doors down.

Students who got human blood on their laptops.

Who encountered injured and dying bodies on the ground.

Who fled for their lives.

On Sunday, we had our senior baseball captain over for hot cocoa and hugs. Even as a therapist—someone who regularly encounters trauma in both physical and virtual spaces—I have rarely sat with trauma so acute, so raw.

He told us about the stampede from Barus & Holley, how his teammates ran, fearing for their lives, leaving behind backpacks and belongings now held as evidence. He hadn’t slept during the lockdown and refused to rest until every teammate was safely home.

I realize I’ve been so occupied by the horror of our students’ experiences that I haven’t fully shown up for others carrying the weight of the manhunt—clients hesitant to drive to my College Hill office, or parents unsure about sending their children to school this week. I’m still waiting for it to fully sink in as I pass empty streets usually lined with parked cars, FBI agents pacing our walking paths, and caution tape caught in the bushes of our lawn.

For now, my bones just feel sad.

I can see how pain can keep us from showing up for others’ pain.

But I can also see how pain draws us nearer to Him.

⸻

What We’ve Been Reminded of This Week…

Destruction yields connection.

There is so much to grieve—and also so much to honor.

A city showing up.

First responders answering the call.

Police officers keeping steady watch.

Our church mobilizing—aid stations, all-night prayer rooms, care packages moving outward.

Each morning, Mayor Smiley stands outside Ali Jo’s school, greeting students as they arrive.

Each day, Principal Wright sends steady updates, reassuring families.

We were never meant to live alone (Genesis 2:18).

And suffering draws us back to this truth.

Relationships endure.

This fall, Grant and I spoke at separate Brown events and were met with open arms. Weeks later, on an Ivy football Saturday, we set up a simple hydration station—and half the baseball team showed up.

Those moments—small on their own—compounded powerfully this week.

We were called upon by past and present Brown students.

And we were deeply supported by you.

So many reached out to say: We know this place matters to you. We know you’re part of it. We’re thinking of you—hurting with you, praying for you.

A reminder that security and identity can be shaken—but people remain.

Relationships endure.

⸻

Back to Ali Jo’s Question

“Do you really get sick when you love home so much?”

Somehow, she picked up on the power source of it all: love.

Would we be truly homesick for a place we didn’t love?

Love isn’t just a feeling.

Love isn’t an abstract force.

Love is a person.

God is love (1 John 4:8).

So when people ask how we’re doing after the shooting, the truest answer I can give is this:

Homesick.

When earth doesn’t look like it does in Heaven, we’re reminded that this world is temporary. We grieve deeply as we long for our eternal home.

And part of what it means to be a Christ follower—wherever we live, wherever we’re sent—is to bring love into bleak places, knowing that love is God, and God is love.

In Deo Speramus—In God we hope—is etched into Brown’s seal and coat of arms, a quiet detail many don’t know, particularly given that Brown is not a Christian university.

In the wake of so much hopelessness, we pray that Hope’s Name would be called upon.

We celebrate His birthday next week.

And His name is Jesus.

Our deepest prayer for College Hill is that He would use even this thick place —to draw more people home.