To the twenty precious babies. To their mothers. Oh God, even as I write these words I cannot imagine the horror of the past 72 hours for you. To their fathers. The men who held them first when they were just new. The brothers and sisters who watched out the window for them to come home from school- or held their hands as they walked to the bus together. The grandparents who now look at piles of Christmas presents little hands will never open.
The rest of us are reading the news and watching the television while your life unfolds in front of us. Do you long for peace or are you desperate for the world to give you answers? Please know that we are sending you every spare bit of love we have to give you. We are praying that every memory you have in your mind and heart will be as clear and real as the hands of our children that we are holding so tightly as we breathe prayers of thankfulness that it wasn't us.
No one ever knows what to do. The pragmatists throw out solutions that seem callous and ill-timed. Maybe tomorrow we can debate gun laws. The terrified hide in their houses and decide the only way to keep their children safe is never to let them venture outside again. The world is cold and dark. The heartbroken will lament the state of our world. They will cry for the loss of innocence and brace themselves for the next tragedy. And the optimists will talk about the hope for the future- how knowing things like this can happen anywhere should make us hug our children and be grateful for another day.
I will do a little of each. I will cry and I will hate and I will scream and I will hope. And when the sun comes up tomorrow, Pursy will remind me that the sunrise is just for her- because pink is her favorite color.
Twenty precious babies.
Even so, come Lord Jesus. I wish You would have come on Thursday.