🕯️Where Do We Go From Here?
Some thoughts on gun violence and our kids🕯️
“Did you hear what happened in Texas today?” I ask my husband, while chopping asparagus for soup. I think our kids are in the other room listening to a story on Alexa, out of earshot, and I’m anxious to process my pain with the other adult in the house.
“No,” I hear him say from the sunroom, where he’s finishing up work for the day. Silence follows; I assume it means he’s looking up the latest headlines.
“What happened in Texas?” my ten-year-old asks, hopping onto a barstool at the kitchen counter. I stop chopping and look up at her, unsure of what to say.
She was ten months old when Sandy Hook happened. I remember nursing her that night, rocking her for hours longer than usual. I couldn’t bear to put her down. I kissed her nose and smelled her head and sobbed for the mothers who didn’t have their kids to snuggle that night. I didn’t have to talk about it then. She wasn’t old enough to wonder or to follow the news. There was no need to tell a baby about the evil in the world. It would be years before she had to face it.
Maybe I should avoid it this time too. Tell her it’s nothing for her to worry about. Bury my head in the sand and pretend it didn’t happen. I can bottle up all the pain inside and change the subject, holding her and her sister for a little longer at bedtime tonight, like I did ten years ago. I can protect them from finding out. Keep the news turned off, not talk about it, just ignore the reality of it all.
Or I can be honest with her and allow her to come alongside me in the journey of pain. Tell her what happened. Answer her questions. Pray together; for peace for the parents, for wisdom of our leaders, for God to somehow intervene.
I let go of the knife, let it rest on the cutting board, and decide to tell her the truth. I’d rather she hear it from me than from somewhere else. “Fourteen children were shot at school today. They were your age.”
“On purpose?” she asks with concern in her voice.
“Yes.” I look at her and fiercely gaze into her eyes, trying to wordlessly say I love you. More than you will ever know.
“That’s so sad. Why?”
I don’t know how to answer that question. Why? The gunman was a kid himself—barely older than eighteen. How the hell did he buy a gun? Two?! Why the f*@& are people killing people? Children killing children! Is this what people do for fun?
“It is very sad. I don’t know why.” I take a deep breath and turn around to drop the asparagus into the pot on the stove. These are conversations I don’t want to have with my kids. I don’t want them to know the pain in the world. I want them to feel safe, to feel loved, to not constantly be in fear of whether they might be shot today. Or tomorrow. Or the day after that.
I was a senior in high school, when Columbine happened. Twenty-three years ago. It was a Tuesday just a few weeks before graduation. I walked into my living room after a half day of classes to see the news on TV. Two boys my age opened fire on their classmates. “He was distraught,” I remember my mom saying at dinner that night. “Not right in the head.” I suspect it was her way of comforting me; of assuring me that this doesn’t happen all the time. Mass shootings are unusual, it seemed at the time. School was safe. There was nothing to worry about. It wouldn’t happen again.
Except it did.
And it did.
And it did.
And it did.
Over and over again. Children are being shot. At schools. At churches. At grocery stores. At malls. Walking down the street.
“I don’t know why people kill other people,” I say, turning to look at her once again. She nods her head, hops down from her chair, and walks into the kitchen to stand close to me. I open my arms to welcome her in. Wrapping her arms around my waist, she buries her head into my stomach. We stand there for a few moments before we part. She goes back to whatever she was doing before. I finish making my soup.
Later, when we sit around the dinner table with bowls full with Creamy White Bean and Asparagus Soup, I remind her it’s her turn to pray. She thanks God for the soup and bread, for warm sunshine and friends to play with. “Be with those parents who are sad tonight,” she says. “And be with the people of Ukraine,” my youngest chimes in.
We say Amen. I turn my head to my eight-year-old, who is looking at me with wide eyes, silently asking me to clue her in on the prayer her sister has just prayed. “There was a school shooting today,” I tell her, and begin the conversation all over again.
I intended to write about the power of writing this morning—encouragement for everyone to pick up their pen and start scratching words on the page—but all I can think about is dead children.
I was smearing peanut butter on bread for my daughters’ picnic lunches this morning when a wave of emotion flooded over me. There are mothers in Texas today who will never make another sandwich for their child again. No more asking “ham and cheese” or “peanut butter”? Their houses will be silent. No arguments, no tantrums, no slamming of doors or stomping up stairs. No giggles. No laughter. Only a violent emptiness.
As I drove my girls to nature class today, they were in the backseat, spitting out the lyrics to their latest Broadway obsession: SIX. They know every single lyric. Even the ones I’d rather they didn’t. Instead of feeling immense joy for their tiny voices singing history in unison, I felt my shoulders tense. My stomach turned. There are mothers in Texas today who will never hear their babies voices again.
This morning, I entrusted my kids to adults who will do their hardest to keep them safe. There are ordinary risks of course—bee stings, scraped knees, mosquito bites—the normal things of childhood; but no parent ever thinks they are leaving their child in a place where they might end up shot.
My babies are alive, but there are mothers in Texas today whose babies are dead. Killed by a child. Who never should have had access to a gun.
My heart is broken. Where do we go from here?
We lament. We mourn. We pray. We get to work.
We call our senators and our representatives and our local leaders. We write letters to the editors of our local papers. We advocate for gun control. We advocate for mental health services. We love on people. We seek out the broken-hearted and let them know they are loved too. We do it all. We do it now.
We demand change so that not another mother loses their child to gun violence.
My friend Rachel wrote this beautiful poem more than a year ago about the mothers. Why are we still dealing with this?! When will it end!?
If you’re struggling with how to talk to your kids about school shootings, this is a helpful guide.
And in a bit broader vein, I love this article about how kids can handle dangerous ideas. It’s so important to talk to our kids about what’s happening in the world. Talking to them about the tough stuff actually helps them make better decisions. It helps ground them in reality. It helps them be passionate and empathetic. Trusting them with tough ideas equips them to deal with it when they are adults.
My 10-year-old and I both read The Blackbird Girls by Anne Blankman this month and highly recommend it. Based on the story of the explosion at Chernobyl, it’s a fantastic glimpse at life in the Ukraine and Russia.
I just started Nightbitch by Rachel Yoder and I absolutely can’t stop thinking about it. It’s waking parts of me that have been sleeping for many years. It’s a must read for every mother who wonders why we feel like we’re going insane trying to do it all.
This is Your Time by Ruby Bridges is a fantastic letter written to encourage us all to make a difference in the world around us. It’s a terrific read to read with your kids or on your own.
When I am feeling full of emotion, I turn to the kitchen to make sense of things. There’s something about starting with a pile of ingredients and turning it into a thing of beauty. This Creamy White Bean And Asparagus Soup will forever be imprinted in my mind as a food to eat when we talk about tough stuff.
This month we’ve eaten a lot of sweet potatoes and quinoa. Both are inexpensive and plentiful this time of year, and are quite versatile. Cook a big batch of both and make these Southwestern Sweet Potato Quinoa Burgers one night and turn the leftovers into a Sweet Potato Quinoa Grain Bowl with whatever else you can find in your fridge, freezer, or pantry.
Bonus recipe: May brings the return of lettuce and asparagus. This Roasted Rainbow Salad is one of my faves.
I am thrilled to share my essay Mama Dreams, Daughter Dreams, published in the May/June issue of Literary Mama. It was only in watching my daughter dream that I realized that chasing my own dreams is important for her too.
When I got the prompt for this month’s Exhale blog hop, I laughed. “Create a photo essay,” they said; “show us what motherhood looks like for you right now.” Almost every photo in my phone is of the new puppy. Or of a random mess. Who wants to see any of that in large quantities? What story could they possibly tell?
I have been participating in Laura Tremaine’s #onedaymay this month and have been having a great time. I wrote about When I Most Feel Like Myself for Selfie Day, I put together a tribute to my family for Someone I Love, a creed of sorts to share something I believe, and this attempt at blackout poetry to revise a quote that I’m having a hard time with right now. You can catch up on the entire month of prompts on my Instagram feed.
God of Peace,
We come to you today with heavy hearts. We lament the constant violence in our world. We pray for those families who lost their babies yesterday. Grant us compassion to weep with them as they weep today and in the days to come. Send your peace to wash over them so they might feel your presence and your love.
Empower us to action beyond our tears. Send your wisdom and love to leaders all over the world. Embolden them to act hastily with justice and mercy.
Lord, make us instruments of your peace. Where there is hatred, let us sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is discord, union; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; where there is sadness, joy.
We pray all of these things with faith in your promises to heal all who hurt. Amen.
Until next month,
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