Category: Hope

Aurora tragedy, Earthquakes, Encouragement, Hope, Jeff Goins, Juan of Words, senseless violence

The Earthquake in Aurora, USA.

Mona Alvarado Frazier

Rockford Register, OK

The senseless violence and tragedy this past Friday has left millions of people hurt, confused, and numb for words. I’ve been one of them. 


After a few hours of watching CNN and other news sources I marveled at the articulation of some of the  witnesses who were able to think through that horror, to move, to empathize with other victims, to apologize for not saving someone, and then for not stopping the gunman.


 I feel like we had a 6.0 earthquake in America.  


The foundations of life shaken, jolted and jarred-again. There have been shootings in all of the places we used to think were havens of safety: churches, schools, playgrounds, at funerals, our work place, the shopping malls, and the movie theater. 


Late last Friday afternoon I unplugged. T.V, radio, internet, newspaper-ignored. I needed to regroup, connect to my kids and myself,  feel the feelings before I went on. Three days later, the outpouring of pain resulting from the massacre and the lives changed forever still makes a large lump in my throat. 


After 24 hours I went back on to Facebook, saw the hundreds of tribute banners and clicked off. I began to read my blog roll and sure enough there were some on the subject of Aurora, Colorado’s tragedy.


But I found two posts, written on the day of the tragedy, that touched me. These writers were able to articulate much of what I felt and for that I’m appreciative, as it helped me to process the ‘un-process-able,’ at least for a while. 


“Embrace today, for tomorrow is not guaranteed,” wrote Juan of Words. 

“Every day is an opportunity to tell somebody we love them..To give and get the embraces we’ve been longing for…To make our children feel special.  To teach them love and compassion.  Above hatred and violence.” 

A similar message from Jeff Goins “When the Pain of the World is Too Much to Bear.”


“Years ago, I was in that town, playing a concert with my band. We were at a church, performing for a small audience of youth on a Friday night. I wonder if any of them were in that movie theater? Who knows.


When tragedy strikes, you can go around and around like this, driving yourself crazy with the “what if”s. It’s natural, but unhelpful, and it doesn’t soothe the pain of a broken world.

I’m not trying to be overly optimistic here; I’m not looking for the Pollyanna thread in all of this. I’m just trying to breathe…

In the darkest times, hope is all we have to cling to. It’s an unexpected grace in a time of uncertainty — when we’re not sure we can take another step. And for some, it’s just enough to go on. 

Hope, that’s what I needed to hear and remember. In the midst of tragedy, as in earthquakes, people do rebuild, as difficult and excruciating as that may be for the victim’s and their families. 

Hope is what drives us as we stumble forth and put one foot in front of the other, sometimes leaning back and sometimes leaning on, making our way in life by reaching out to others and reaching in to whatever it is that helps us move into another day.  

Health, Hope, October Breast Cancer Awareness, Relay for Life

I Walk In Hope

Mona Alvarado Frazier
Graphic by Digital Product©

Yesterday was inspirational, hopeful, and overwhelming at times. My young cousin organized a Relay For Life  team, named Walk to Remember, for the annual American Cancer Society. We walked for her Grandma Della who was my aunt. Both my uncles died from cancer too. I’m the only one who has survived and next month is my sixth year of being cancer free.

Our “Walk to Remember” logo, created by my son, is a beautiful reminder of my aunt. Her  favorite color was purple. We  underwent chemo around the same time, after her cancer returned. Once she told me,”It’s okay that I go, I’ve lived a long time, but you’re too young, you can’t go yet, you have to fight.”

I remembered her words when I looked up at the HOPE banner swaying against the light gray sky. I stared for a few seconds reflecting on it. Then I took my place for the Survivors Lap and somehow ended up with the large RFL “Survivors/Sobrevivientes” banner along with four others. That’s what happens when you get to the party early, I guess.

Camarillo, CA RFL

So I’m in the front and about 200 other survivors are behind the five of us. “I Won’t Let Go,” by Rascal Flats played as we took our lap around the high school track. People on the sidelines cheered, snapped pictures, held up photos of their lost loved ones. The woman next to me started sniffling, then crying, the banner slowly slipping from her hand as she wiped away tears. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I keep crying,” she said. “It’s okay, we can cry, go ahead,” I replied.

We kept walking and I heard more sniffling, from either side of me, my eyes misted too. I was glad I wore sunglasses and a baseball cap. Decorated “luminarias” dotted the inside perimeter of the track. We passed a couple of hundred, each with “In Memory Of…” “Beloved…” or “I Miss You…” surrounding a photo of their loved one…men, women, children.

When we rounded the track I could see the HOPE balloons floating in an arch. Throughout the day and night our team walked, round and round, collecting ‘lap beads.’ My sister did five miles, I did four, the adults walked, the teens and the little kids walked. Various groups walked, schools, cub scouts, little league teams, women and men with strollers, people in wheelchairs and with canes. Around eleven at night, a large group of the teenagers, dressed in Homecoming dresses and tuxes came onto the track, a few girls without their heels and some limping. I felt overwhelmed again. Sometimes we think young people don’t care and then we see otherwise.

Camarillo RFL

Six years next month. I’m doing well, my kids are healthy, I’m blessed in so many ways. When my mom and I left that evening I remembered that  I have a whole lot of time ahead to walk and live in hope.