Today the northwest wind pushed hard on the front corner of our state car and tried to veer us into the ditch as we headed north to McClusky. More than a squall but less than a blizzard, the ground drifting did little to slow us up. I thought again of our recent trip and was taken to the scene of the horrendous explosion that destroyed the Federal Building in Oklahoma City.
We reached that site on the evening of our second day as we pressed south to Texas. The sun had set in a clear sky, and we watched stars begin to twinkle as we arrived in the city. After a hurried supper we traveled a short ten minutes to the National Memorial and Museum which honors the many who died there. Here occurred one of those incidents when a person can remember where he was and what he was doing when news of it spread. I was attending a meeting in Denver, and a crowd gathered in the hotel lobby watching a TV set where those live scenes aired and burned into our memories.
The memorial's lighting system copied itself on the still water of the reflecting pool. We walked silently past empty chairs placed in perfect rows, one for each person killed. A smaller version of them sat there for each of the small children who lost their lives. A gnarled, misshapen tree grew crookedly beside the pond. The blast had not killed it, only deformed it, and they have named it the Survivor Tree.
Across the street but not part of the memorial stood a statue that drew some of us to it. The Catholic church, rather than rebuild the rectory destroyed here by the blast, chose to mount a large likeness of Christ with his back turned to the destruction. He stands with his head buried in his hands and is aptly named from the shortest verse in the Bible "Jesus wept."
Never have I visited a more solemn place than this, all created by the senseless mindset of someone following his misguided and self-styled dogma.
