The semester is finally over and I can return to the blissfulness of writing and wallowing away in a world where voices in my head don't mean I'm crazy, they just mean a story is being brewed. Finally.
Unfortunately, I'm not typing this post on a high note. In fact, as my fingers run across the keyboard today, I mourn for the people I am about to type about. The children of Newtown who perished in the devastating shooting this past Friday, their teachers, their heartbroken parents, and every other person affected by this tragedy in one way or another. And even if you're a hundred miles away from the site of the tragedy, that doesn't mean you can't be affected by it. I know I am.
I had heard about the shooting minutes after I finished my last final of the semester, bid my friends goodbye, and headed home about to celebrate the end of a hard and stressful semester. Instead of enjoying the beginning of my winter break though, I ended up on my couch, reminiscing about my days in elementary school, which I will tell you were the absolute best days of my life. I am still in touch with my teachers from then and I never stop wishing to go back there.
The 6 years I spent there were full of excitement, kindness, and they planted the seeds to who I was going to become. They taught me to share, to love, to be caring and quiet, to be patient, and to always dream big. And the biggest and most important thing about elementary school was it was my second home. It was the one and only place outside my house that I felt 110% safe in. Sometimes I even felt more safe at school than at home, such as during storms. I knew after countless tornado and fire drills done in school that if I should be anywhere during a disaster, it should be at school because everyone knew what to do during a disaster. School was my favorite place. It was my sanctuary.
The children of Newtown don't feel the same now as I did when I was 6 or 7. They're afraid and they don't want to go back to school. They feel betrayed that the place that was supposed to safe now isn't. They don't understand why the "bad man" killed their teachers, their principal, their friends.
There are too many survior stories out there right now. I don't know if you've heard about the neighbor who found 6-year-olds in his yard who had ran out of the school, or the 6-year-old girl who played dead as her teacher and 16 classmates were killed and then ran out to her mother covered in blood, telling her she was fine. Or how about the boy who said he knew karate and would lead everyone out?
These are CHILDREN! But they've proven to be the bravest people out there. Every ounce of my being wants to go to Newtown and hug every single person affected by this tragedy, be it the parents of the victims who will never hear their children climbing the stairs to their room, will never bake their birthday cakes, will never get the chance to tuck them into bed one last time. And what about those children who survived? Or their parents? How will they ever be able to watch their child leave the house again after they'd been so close to death? And what in the world is going to convince those children to go back to school? Who's going to be able to make them remember the smell of crayons and the colorful posters on their classroom walls, and make them forget the scent of blood and the sight of their dead teacher or classmates?
When we watch the news and see murder go on in Gaza or in Syria, we understand that those people are in a state of war, that they are being killed by the ENEMY, someone who hates them. Not to justify the killing of children there either, but they go to sleep not knowing if they're going to be alive the next morning. But the children who died on Friday were not living in a country rocked by a war. They had probably slept with a teddy bear the night before, woke up to winter sun in their eyes, maybe even ate Fruity Pebbles or Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal for breakfast. They may have told their parents what they want for Christmas or what they wanted to eat for dinner. They may have all told their parents they loved them and they'd see them later. Except they didn't because a member of their own community who was NOT an enemy, NOT a soldier, took their life away from them in seconds. He took away their dreams and futures and joy and happiness from their parents. Just because he thought he could.
We need to remind ourselves this was God's will, that he must have done this for a reason, even if we're finding that too hard to understand. It's a lot easier to try to believe that this was what was written rather than sit and hate that lost man for making this treacherous and selfish mistake. There's a line in a song that's on the radio now way too much that I can't stop thinking about when I talk about these children:
Don't you worry, don't you worry child
See heaven's got a plan for you
Don't you worry, don't you worry now
-Swedish American Mafia
Unfortunately, I'm not typing this post on a high note. In fact, as my fingers run across the keyboard today, I mourn for the people I am about to type about. The children of Newtown who perished in the devastating shooting this past Friday, their teachers, their heartbroken parents, and every other person affected by this tragedy in one way or another. And even if you're a hundred miles away from the site of the tragedy, that doesn't mean you can't be affected by it. I know I am.
I had heard about the shooting minutes after I finished my last final of the semester, bid my friends goodbye, and headed home about to celebrate the end of a hard and stressful semester. Instead of enjoying the beginning of my winter break though, I ended up on my couch, reminiscing about my days in elementary school, which I will tell you were the absolute best days of my life. I am still in touch with my teachers from then and I never stop wishing to go back there.
The 6 years I spent there were full of excitement, kindness, and they planted the seeds to who I was going to become. They taught me to share, to love, to be caring and quiet, to be patient, and to always dream big. And the biggest and most important thing about elementary school was it was my second home. It was the one and only place outside my house that I felt 110% safe in. Sometimes I even felt more safe at school than at home, such as during storms. I knew after countless tornado and fire drills done in school that if I should be anywhere during a disaster, it should be at school because everyone knew what to do during a disaster. School was my favorite place. It was my sanctuary.
The children of Newtown don't feel the same now as I did when I was 6 or 7. They're afraid and they don't want to go back to school. They feel betrayed that the place that was supposed to safe now isn't. They don't understand why the "bad man" killed their teachers, their principal, their friends.
There are too many survior stories out there right now. I don't know if you've heard about the neighbor who found 6-year-olds in his yard who had ran out of the school, or the 6-year-old girl who played dead as her teacher and 16 classmates were killed and then ran out to her mother covered in blood, telling her she was fine. Or how about the boy who said he knew karate and would lead everyone out?
These are CHILDREN! But they've proven to be the bravest people out there. Every ounce of my being wants to go to Newtown and hug every single person affected by this tragedy, be it the parents of the victims who will never hear their children climbing the stairs to their room, will never bake their birthday cakes, will never get the chance to tuck them into bed one last time. And what about those children who survived? Or their parents? How will they ever be able to watch their child leave the house again after they'd been so close to death? And what in the world is going to convince those children to go back to school? Who's going to be able to make them remember the smell of crayons and the colorful posters on their classroom walls, and make them forget the scent of blood and the sight of their dead teacher or classmates?
When we watch the news and see murder go on in Gaza or in Syria, we understand that those people are in a state of war, that they are being killed by the ENEMY, someone who hates them. Not to justify the killing of children there either, but they go to sleep not knowing if they're going to be alive the next morning. But the children who died on Friday were not living in a country rocked by a war. They had probably slept with a teddy bear the night before, woke up to winter sun in their eyes, maybe even ate Fruity Pebbles or Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal for breakfast. They may have told their parents what they want for Christmas or what they wanted to eat for dinner. They may have all told their parents they loved them and they'd see them later. Except they didn't because a member of their own community who was NOT an enemy, NOT a soldier, took their life away from them in seconds. He took away their dreams and futures and joy and happiness from their parents. Just because he thought he could.
We need to remind ourselves this was God's will, that he must have done this for a reason, even if we're finding that too hard to understand. It's a lot easier to try to believe that this was what was written rather than sit and hate that lost man for making this treacherous and selfish mistake. There's a line in a song that's on the radio now way too much that I can't stop thinking about when I talk about these children:
Don't you worry, don't you worry child
See heaven's got a plan for you
Don't you worry, don't you worry now
-Swedish American Mafia
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