So Young
On the way back from Deerfield, MA and several hours of taking butterfly photos at an indoor tropically heated butterfly emporium and after stopping for chocolates at a store advertising hand made chocolates we turned on the radio.
Instead of hearing music or listening to the sports station we heard about a shooting in Connecticut. After going from station to station and listening to bits and pieces -- we pieced together the story. An unimaginable scenario, a senseless spree of killings perpetrated in an elementary school. Unfathomable.
In the evening we watched video clippings, interviews with teachers, interviews with a family member, a church service, an interview with clergy. Nothing made sense. We asked the same questions everyone asks: Why? And is there anything that can be done?
Who can even imagine the grief and pain in that community, who can envision the loss? We don't know the names of the twenty children. We know some names of the seven adults.
We don't know who loved to read, color, play with Legos, write a poem, dress up, cuddle ,help plant a garden. We don't know who hoped to play on a Little League team next spring, who played the piano, sang in the chorus, drew cartoons, did cartwheels, belonged to the Girl Scouts.
And we don't know what made a young man become so at odds with himself and the world that he could plan and carry out these senseless killings.
Maybe the only thing we can do right now, before we engage in debates about what to do, is pray.
Instead of hearing music or listening to the sports station we heard about a shooting in Connecticut. After going from station to station and listening to bits and pieces -- we pieced together the story. An unimaginable scenario, a senseless spree of killings perpetrated in an elementary school. Unfathomable.
In the evening we watched video clippings, interviews with teachers, interviews with a family member, a church service, an interview with clergy. Nothing made sense. We asked the same questions everyone asks: Why? And is there anything that can be done?
Who can even imagine the grief and pain in that community, who can envision the loss? We don't know the names of the twenty children. We know some names of the seven adults.
We don't know who loved to read, color, play with Legos, write a poem, dress up, cuddle ,help plant a garden. We don't know who hoped to play on a Little League team next spring, who played the piano, sang in the chorus, drew cartoons, did cartwheels, belonged to the Girl Scouts.
And we don't know what made a young man become so at odds with himself and the world that he could plan and carry out these senseless killings.
Maybe the only thing we can do right now, before we engage in debates about what to do, is pray.
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