What do we say to the parents?
At least 31 killed in weekend mass shootings.
That’s what the headline read.
I recall a particularly dark night, a little more than a year ago when I held my son, helping him to calm his breathing and slow his tears. I won’t go into details, but suffice to say my son, who has OCD and an anxiety disorder, went to a terrifying place and was almost swallowed up by it.
As I whispered words of comfort and Truth in his ear that night, I told him because he had God in his heart, he would be protected. Then we prayed together. I prayed for God’s protection and strength to surround my son. Together we denounced any evil that might try to take over his thoughts or compromise his safety.
And friends, I believed — still believe — with my whole heart that those words I said, the prayer we prayed is true. I believe that God loves my son and will protect him and keep him safe.
But then this weekend.
I scrolled the headlines, the posts on social media. At least 31 killed. Dozens more wounded.
Men, women, and children ranging in age from 15 to 90 years old. But they are all somebody’s child, aren’t they?
And that’s who I think about. I think of the mothers and fathers of those 31 innocent lives. Did they pray the same prayer before their child left for kindergarten, or to join the military, or before they walked down the aisle?
Did they believe with all of their heart that God would protect their son or daughter and keep them safe all the days of their life?
I don’t know for sure, but I would bet some of them did. And I’m left wondering how we come to terms with the knowledge that 31 lives were taken?
I’ve grappled with that question for two days, asking myself how I can have such great faith and trust that my son will be protected, while knowing a mother in El Paso is getting ready to bury her son? And a father in Dayton going to have to bury his daughter.
I don’t really have an answer for that. You can call it blind faith. You can call it naivety. You can call it illogical or unfair. You can call it luck or privilege.
Call it what you will.
I guess if I had to choose one word to call it, it would be hope.
I know deep down that every day is a gift. I have lost loved ones too soon. I have attended the funerals of children. I have sat in hospital rooms with my husband waiting for test results, wondering if we would both leave the hospital.
I know that we are not guaranteed tomorrow.
None of us. Including my son or daughters.
I also know God loved us so very much He offered us free will and with that free will the devil schemes and takes advantage and sometimes, yes sometimes, he wins the battle. It can happen to any one of us. Any one of our children.
But this weekend I also spoke with a friend who is slowing rebuilding her life after tragic loss. I watched grandparents and camp counselors love on my kids. I saw friends praying with each other at church, and hugging tightly as tears were dried and words of love exchanged. I saw my son strike up a conversation with a handicapped young man, and my daughter hold hands, comforting a homesick little girl.
So while evil was taking lives in El Paso and Dayton, and around the world, hope was there, too.
Hope sat with the mother shopping at Walmart who wrapped her body around her infant, giving her life to save his.
Hope sat with the police officers, first responders, and hospital staff that worked so diligently to bring down and apprehend the gunmen, care for the wounded, and comfort the families.
Hope sits with all of us who wipe our eyes, raise our fists, and shout “Enough!” While we rally together to stand-up and demand change from our elected officials.
Hope is there, even when we can’t see it or feel it.
For as much as I love words, I am surprisingly bad at knowing what to say in the face of tragedy, especially to those who have lost so deeply. I honestly don’t know what I could say to the families of those 31 innocents or the countless others who have lost loved ones in senseless tragedies like this. I just don’t know that there is anything that could be said that would amount to more than wasted breath and empty words to their broken hearts.
But I can love them. Together, we can love them.
We can hold in our arms the ones we know personally, and hold up in prayer the ones we don’t.
We can look at the photos and read the stories of their sons, daughters, mothers, fathers, brothers, and sisters and remember them.
We can refuse to forget, to move on, or to become numb.
We can demand change.
And yes, yes, I know it’s been said and heard so many times it’s beginning to sound trite. But I do believe in the power of prayer. And I believe we are not only fighting a physical war — one that requires more intervention, awareness, access to mental health care, and restricts access to firearms — but we are also fighting a spiritual battle. One that requires we get on our knees and pray for protection over our children, our neighbor’s children, our community’s children, our nation’s children.
It requires we hold on to hope and to each other.
Satan may have won the battle, but God will win the war.
“For in this hope we were saved. But hope that is seen is no hope at all. Who hopes for what they already have? But if we hope for what we do not yet have, we wait for it patiently.” (Romans 8:24-25)
A version of this post was originally published on February 15, 2018 after the senseless tragedy in Parkland, FL. After reading about this weekend’s tragedies in El Paso and Dayton, I felt compelled to update and share these words. They are not words I want to keep updating and sharing.
Father, God, please have mercy on us.
