Words like "our" and "we" — the "we" of that famous phrase "We, the people," not incidentally - can sometimes seem hard to come by in America these days. Division, not unity, feels like the dominant trait. But one of the pieces of common ground we still seize — no matter how much we differ on the methods — is the welfare of, and deep love of, our children. And the abrupt loss of 20 of them seemed, for an afternoon, to stop a nation cold.
Twenty children who will not have children, who in turn will not have children, who in turn will not have children. Dozens of parents who will not watch their child grow to adulthood, graduate, come home for the holidays, walk down the aisle. Scores of grandparents who will look across the generations and see less than they would have 24 hours before. Hundreds of accomplishments that will go unaccomplished. Inventions that will not be invented. Good deeds that will not be committed. Ideas that will not be expressed. Romances that will never happen and kindnesses that will never be shared.
The above words were written by Ted Anthony, a writer for The Associated Press, as he contemplated what was challenging the hearts of every American, especially its parents. The horrid, harsh, fresh reality of young, innocent lives being slaughtered brought together a nation of millions, and yet in time, for most Americans, that reality will one day fade into “mere” statistics. Aging statistics though will not capture the pulse of what happened, not for the children, and not for their parents. Statistics can cause us to gasp at a fading reality, but for every parent, the statistic of just one is, and forever will be, devastating. I know, because 20 children died on the fortieth anniversary of my own daughter’s death. Some think me strange that I still take time to honor and remember my child and to give myself to things that bring some sense of purpose to devastation. But, I know I am not alone, for even on a personal level, I know dozens of parents who have suffered the loss of their child at birth, in early childhood, as teenagers, as young adults, from congenital defects, from pervasive illness or addiction, from the suddenness of an accident, or as the result of the wrong choices of another – and I have felt their grief, the emptiness, the rawness, the loss of their tomorrows, the darkness of their spirits, even as I feel the grief of parents in Connecticut whose individual faces and stories I will never know. Some say, “Time heals,” and yet I know, time alone does not heal. It can’t. It doesn’t have the power to do that. It only has the power to make us attempt to set aside our grief, to make us anxiously stuff it into the box that has no lid so we can somehow, some way, resume some sense of “normalcy,” whatever remnants of “normalcy” remain.
At least forty parents have had their Christmas wrapped in a massacre. Life has abruptly stopped, not only for each child, but for each parent who has loved. Gifts anticipated for eager hands and faces will remain unopened. Homes will be quieter except for the silent screams only a parent’s heart can hear. Or, so we often think and feel. There is One though who hears, and His birth gave to us the Christmas season. He is the Baby who embraced the heart of His Father, a heart that loves, that cares, that feels the hurt and the pain, that listens to the silent screams. Lying in the crudeness of a manger, a baby very ordinary, and yet, a Baby who is very extra-ordinary. A Baby who became the hope of every crushed and broken dream. A Baby who stretches out His arms and invites us, even in the midst of unthinkable tragedy. The tragedy of one or the tragedy of twenty.
