It can really hurt
And these moments given
Are a gift from time
Just let us try
To give these moments back
To those we love
To those who will survive.
- "Moments of Pleasure," Kate Bush
I don't have any wisdom or insight into the tragedy that took place in Newtown, CT two days ago. There's nothing that I can say or do that will, in any way, shape, or form, ease the unbearable pain that the family, friends, and neighbors of those who lost their lives are experiencing right now. I can't make the survivors feel any less guilt or despair, or help the children who attend Sandy Hook feel less afraid to go back to school.
Everywhere I look, there's coverage - television, radio, social media. Everyone is grasping at straws trying to make sense of something that is utterly senseless. Trying to explain what can never be explained or understood.
Some blame a lack of gun control and urge the President to act. Some say we if we weren't such a Godless society, if prayer were allowed in school, this wouldn't have happened. Others cite the increased need for access to better mental health care in this country.
People want to find a way to bring meaning to these lives lost -- let them not die in vain. Channel our collective grief and disbelief into something that is productive. All of that is noble and reflects what is great about our society -- we rally around a "cause" and make our voices heard. We are like the little boy who told his teacher Friday, "Don't worry, I know karate, I'll lead the way." We have an overwhelming desire to help, to do something, anything.
I stopped watching the coverage Friday night. It was too much, and I felt like I was adding to the pain of the families by encouraging the media with my viewership. I don't want to know anything about the killer or why he did it. It has zero meaning to me. Nothing the authorities can uncover changes anything.
I believe everything happens for a reason - times like these make me question that belief.
I am not yet a parent, but I hope to be someday, if it's meant to be. In the words of Hillary Clinton, I do believe that, "it takes a village," to raise a child, and I feel a huge sense of responsibility to children - to protect them, to shepherd them, to help them navigate an increasingly complicated world.
I looked at the names of the fallen on the front page of The New York Times. I read with a broken heart their names and ages. Mostly six and seven year olds. The majority were, I'm willing to wager, excited for Santa, looking forward to celebrating the last nights of Hanukkah, or, at very least, excited for winter break. All woke up that morning and headed off to the important business of being a kid -- school, play, lessons, sports, family time, fighting with their brothers or sisters, walking the dog, homework. Maybe some sprung out of bed excited that morning. Others, like me, not being morning people, had to be dragged out of bed by their moms and dads and hurried along to school.
And now, well.
For me, and many others, this was so incomprehensible that, like I did on 9/11, I went to bed hoping that it would all just be a horrible nightmare and when I woke, this would be all an awful dream.
The President reads their names one by one on national television. How, under different circumstances, this would be a dream come true for any parent or child. The leader of the free world knows their names. Oh how they would wish to be anonymous again, just another citizen, for this to be like any other day.
The town of Newtown has become an unwilling inspiration to the world -- in their strength, in their sacrifice, in their heroism, in their grief.
I believe that, in some ways, this tragedy has made part of all of us kids again. The part that is innocent and can't comprehend evil like this. How could this happen? The part that loves with an open heart without worry of judgment or rejection. The part that wants to help and make things better. The part that wants to comfort and be comforted.
As kids, our world are pretty small -- our parents, our siblings, our pets, our neighbors, our teachers, our friends at school. If you're lucky like me, a wonderful extended family. As we get older, our world and worldview get broader, and more complicated. We acquire knowledge, and degrees, and things.
Sometimes things get out of balance and we forget what's important. Then something like this happens and reminds us that tomorrow is not guaranteed and reminds us that, what's really important cannot be seen or touched, but felt. They are, as Mr. Rogers would say, the "invisible imperishable good stuff."
“In the external scheme of things, shining moments are as brief as the twinkling of an eye, yet such twinklings are what eternity is made of -- moments when we human beings can say 'I love you,' 'I'm proud of you,' 'I forgive you,' 'I'm grateful for you.' That's what eternity is made of: invisible imperishable good stuff.”
Most of the memories and moments I hold most dear happened by accident, when I was least expecting it, out of an everyday moment. On most occasions, I did not know as it was happening that I was making a moment that would be important to me, and even the occasions I knew were important, it's the most random moments that I remember as special. When strung together, these moments become days, months, years, lives.
As survivors, we owe it to those who have lost their lives to continue to embrace life and create those moments of "good stuff." We hug our children for those parents who no longer have that luxury. We put down the Blackberry and truly listen. We shut off the television and call a friend we're long overdue in calling.
We owe these moments to those who have passed, but most importantly, we owe them to ourselves.
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