Last week's tragic, tragic shooting in Connecticut has had me, one: bawling my eyes out, and two: thinking about a lot of things. This sounds terrible, but all other horrific events of this nature I have been able to briefly consider and then quickly put on the shelf in my mind labeled "not to be thought about."
This one, though, I simply cannot seem to set aside in my mind.
This one is different. So different. The sheer magnitude of the damage is on the incomprehensibly large side, but that's not even what it is.
It's the children.
As if victims in these types of situations aren't helpless and innocent enough, the majority of these victims were the most helpless, and the most innocent that they could be. They were mere babies in the scheme of things. And, having babies of my own, this tragedy has hit home in a way that no other has before. My heart aches with the thought of the inescapable void that the stolen lives of these children has left in the lives of their families. It rejoices with the thought of those adults who did everything in their power and laid down their lives to protect them. And my heart greedily, selfishly tries to lock my own children in and keep them safe in a world where we have less and less control over what happens to them.
So, just as I am sure you are, as Christmas approaches and I think of the tiny inconveniences of my own life compared with the abject grief in the lives of others, I am:
hugging my children a little tighter
listening to them a little better
kissing them a little (okay, a lot) more
appreciating their sheer vivacity and presence in a way that I never have before.
And I am remembering, and crying with, and praying for those who cannot.
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