Here it is, again.
Here, it is worse,
if you can calculate the relativity of evil and horror by body counts.
The broken, shattered world. My God.
My God.
What do you do with words like "There is one kindergarten class unaccounted for" in those first hours?
I'll tell you what I do.
I immediately see the faces of both of my children at age five. I see their chubby little hands, their giggles, and wide-eyes, and their little arms around my neck, their little voices calling me "Mommy."
In my mind, I see the parents racing to the school today, their own children's faces before them, blinding them in fear, and dozens who arrive don't find their children. They are surrounded by parents and children embracing and crying and thanking God. And their children aren't there.
You can't stop listening to the news, even though they have nothing new to report for long stretches. The droning, the new news appearing out of the noise as yet another horror in tiny drips. You learn the shooters name, and you find his Facebook page, soon to be shut down, doubtless. But not yet. And you hear that his mother's students were some of the victims. You see his friend count being to quickly disappear, as his name make the circuits. When I first found it, he had 122 friends. Within a few minutes, 117. You look at his profile pictures, the latest updated this past week. And still, you see your own five year olds, looking up at you with those big, innocent eyes.
My God.
Here, it is worse,
if you can calculate the relativity of evil and horror by body counts.
The broken, shattered world. My God.
My God.
What do you do with words like "There is one kindergarten class unaccounted for" in those first hours?
I'll tell you what I do.
I immediately see the faces of both of my children at age five. I see their chubby little hands, their giggles, and wide-eyes, and their little arms around my neck, their little voices calling me "Mommy."
In my mind, I see the parents racing to the school today, their own children's faces before them, blinding them in fear, and dozens who arrive don't find their children. They are surrounded by parents and children embracing and crying and thanking God. And their children aren't there.
You can't stop listening to the news, even though they have nothing new to report for long stretches. The droning, the new news appearing out of the noise as yet another horror in tiny drips. You learn the shooters name, and you find his Facebook page, soon to be shut down, doubtless. But not yet. And you hear that his mother's students were some of the victims. You see his friend count being to quickly disappear, as his name make the circuits. When I first found it, he had 122 friends. Within a few minutes, 117. You look at his profile pictures, the latest updated this past week. And still, you see your own five year olds, looking up at you with those big, innocent eyes.
My God.
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