A time to grieve

It may seem a little late to be writing this post, but it's been a full weekend for us, and I had to hold myself together.  You see, I have that luxury - I can grieve when I have time to rather than feeling the weight of the grief every second of every minute of every hour of every day.  The tragedy that happened Friday morning has been, by now, blogged about, read about, talked about, speculated about, and here I am writing yet another piece about it.  Why?  Because I need to grieve, and now is the time.

Friday night was the Festival of Lessons and Carols, a sacred Christmas music concert at the school where I work.  It was phenomenal - Fairest Lord Jesus, in particular, was moving for me.  And it seemed like every song talked in some way about Heaven, children in Heaven, and no surprise, really, as the topic was the Christ Child who later stated that we must become like little children to enter the Kingdom of Heaven.

Saturday night my husband and I attended The Singing Christmas Tree, a musical drama at a nearby church. It tells the story of Christ's birth, miracles, death, and resurrection, and every year it's a great reminder that Christmas is only a celebrated holiday because we also have Easter.  This is a bit of a rabbit trail, but go with me for a minute...

During The Singing Christmas Tree, there's a scene they do every year where Jesus heals a lame boy (once played by my husband - you can imagine the family jokes "he was the best lame boy ever - he was made for it!"  etc, etc).  Later in the scene, a blind man comes onto the stage.  Last year when we went to the drama, I was so impressed by the blind man's acting that I leaned over to my husband and whispered in his ear, "That blind man is such a good actor!  Is he really blind?"  (Keep in mind that I was at that point the first-time-mother of a nursing 3-month old who had never had a bottle in her life...)  Chase responded, "Yep.  They just call the local blind group before every showing and have them send over another blind guy to be healed."  About that time I realized the error of my thinking, and we broke down into uncontrollable silent laughter!  I'm telling you, the guy that plays the blind man is REALLY impressive.

This year, as we watched that same scene unfold(they work it into the story every year), we again dropped into pew-shaking giggles as the blind man was healed.  But they quickly turned to sobs for me as I watched Jesus walk from the blind man who could see to the young dead girl cradled in her father's arms.  In the drama, Jesus brings that young girl to life as he did many years ago in real life.

And in that moment my heart broke, again, for the mothers who would give anything to get the call, "Come!  Bring your kindergartener!  Jesus is here and he can raise children from the dead."  I know the impact that would have - I watched my mother bury her first born, a son.  She - we, any of my family - would have given anything to get that phone call, to have that opportunity.

Friday night I thought about all the Christmas presents that are neatly wrapped or stashed away that will never be opened or enjoyed by those children.  I thought about the mothers and fathers and siblings and grandparents and friends and family who will have to figure out what to do with those presents.  Return them?  That seems cold and uncaring.  Wrap them and put them under the tree?  But that's not really living in reality and what do you do with them after Christmas?  Hide them?  Bury them?  Throw them away?  Nothing you do with that kindergartener's present is ok.  And what about their still-empty precious little Christmas stockings?  Their little art projects and favorite outfits and backpacks and lunchboxes are a little easier.  You hang on to them.  Those things are a piece of who your child was.  But the unopened Christmas present and the stocking - those are pieces of who that child would be come - of who that child will never become.

It's not fair.  I hate it.  I hate what those kids lived and died through.  I hate the horror and fear they had to deal with.  I hate the trauma they were exposed to.  I hate it.  I'm sobbing as I write, because I just can't handle it.  It's so not ok.  And I question - why God?  Really?  Kindergarteners?  Totally defenseless children?  Without even their dads or moms or anyone to stand up for them?  And the crappy part is that it's not that there weren't people to stand up for them.  It's that they were going to a safe place, so their protectors and defenders didn't need to be there.  But they did.

I ache for those mothers.  I've waited until now, when I can be alone and really break down to write this.  If by some miracle you are reading this and you are close to the situation, a mother or sister or father or brother or relative or friend of one of those children, I want you to know that I ache for you, and I feel guilty.

I feel guilty because I tucked my daughter into bed tonight and you didn't get to.  Why your school?  Why your town?  Why your child's classroom?  Why not mine?  Why do I get another day with my baby, but you do not?  I feel guilty.  But I also feel so relieved.

I'm relieved that it's not my child who had to be placed in one of those tiny little caskets.  Why do they have to make caskets that small?  It shouldn't be!  At least when we burried my brother he was 17 - a full size casket - not that it makes it any easier.

I'm relieved that it wasn't my town.  The lives that were touched by the "tragedy" (and doesn't that seem a totally inadequate, completely deficient word to use - it doesn't even begin to carry the weight necessary for such a situation) are seemingly endless.  At least I keep realizing more people who have been directly touched.

First I ached for the mothers - the families too, but the mothers especially...  Then I ached for the kids and what they experienced in those last frightful moments - what horrors...  Then I ached for the other children in that school and the surrounding schools - no place is safe now.  They will have to go back to school there.  I don't know how they'll do that.  Then I ached for the parents of the other kids who go to those schools - they will have to send their kids back into that school.  I don't know that I could...  Then I ached for the teachers and administration and leaders in the community who have to somehow grieve themselves while leading others in recovering from the... from the...  what does one even call it?  No word is grotesque enough.  Most recently I realized that there were emergency response personnel who witnessed unspeakable horrors - what of them?  What of the coroners, the morticians, the funeral home directors, the pastors, priests, and reverends who will have to conduct services?  And what of all the others who I haven't listed and who I'm not thinking of?

Over the past year, my husband and I have seen up close the effect that severe trauma can have on a person and the overwhelming uphill battle it can be to work through it and live a normal, healthy life.  A friend has done this, and done it well, but oh my word.  Oh. My. Word.  The battle was crazy.  It was a blessing to be a part of it and see progress and even success, but it will be a life long battle.  And having witnessed it, it now drives me to my knees in situations like this.  I feel so helpless.

I can do nothing for the people directly affected except to do the one thing that pulled me through burying my brother and helping a friend face the unthinkable:  pray.  Say what you will, believe what you must, but prayer is powerful and my God hears me.  I feel like it's the only effective defense I have to protect my daughter from whatever this world will throw at her.  In reality, it's the only protection I have against what this world throws at me.

There are articles flying all over my Facebook about mental health care and gun control and everyone has an opinion.  I certainly have mine.  But the reality is that whatever laws or reforms are made, nothing will make sense of this.  And nothing will fix the "broken system."  Who are we kidding?  We're broken people.  Does anyone question that?  Really?  Would you call yourself anything other than imperfect?  I wouldn't.  I'm imperfect, and gosh darn it, so are you, and I don't mind saying so, because I'm in exactly the same boat.  And if we're imperfect, what makes us think that we, imperfect people, would be able to somehow form a perfect system?

News flash:  It's NOT going to happen!

So what do we do?  I can only share what I do.  I think of Ephesians 6:12-13

For our struggle is not against flesh and blood,
but against the rulers, against the authorities,
against the powers of this dark world, and
against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.
Therefore, put on the whole armor of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand.   

This verse comes to mind because imperfect as I am, and imperfect as you are, I don't think even imperfect, sinful humans would do such a thing as Friday morning to each other if not for other influences.  Call me crazy, I don't care.  I only know that what I can do is call the battle what it is - not against flesh and blood.  And I can do what verse 13 says - take up the whole armor of God and absolutely wear out the knee guards.  Pray.

Pray for my baby who will, when she's old enough, go to school.  Pray for her school.  Pray for her classmates and teacher.  Pray for her classmates' families.  Pray for our town.  Pray for our state.  Pray for our nation.  Pray for each of the individuals touched by this horror.  Pray that somehow, in the midst of the grief, the loss, the hurt, the anger, the everything that Truth will be known and Comfort will be found.

And if somehow you're reading this and you're a mom of one of those kindergarteners, know that you are prayed for and I hope that offers you some measure of...  Look, no amount of praying will make it not hurt - I know.  I tried when I suffered great loss.  And no amount of prayer will make things make sense or be worth it or make you feel better or restore your loss.  You could have 10 more kids, but none of them would replace the one you lost.  I get that - really I do.  My prayer is not that you won't hurt, because hurt, pain, sorrow, grief - they're all a gift.  They're what help us remember, they're what help us heal, they're what remind us of the validity and intrinsic value of the one we lost.  Rather, my prayer is that as you hurt, as you grieve, as you experience sorrow and pain in ways unique only to you, that you would also experience Love as you never have before.  That as you feel that you can't take the next breath, it will be like Someone else is breathing for you, that the One who gives life will show you a Life like you've never known, and that in that Life will be fulfillment, peace, hurt - there will always be hurt and that's good - but resolution within your soul and rest.

If this ever actually reaches you, it's likely that you're so deep in grief right now that you can't see past the next minute, and that's ok.  Keep grieving.  But I can see farther ahead than a minute, so that is my prayer for you - Life and resolution and rest.  But for now, just ache.  And know we ache with you.


**NOTE** I wrote this post directly referencing the children, but I know there were adults who are no longer with us as well.  I wasn't overlooking them, and the post and my feelings and prayers apply equally to their families and friends as well.  I realized this after I completed the writing.