Today is Christmas Eve and it’s been one heck of an emotional week.
It was my little sister’s birthday last Friday, Dec. 14, and I treated her, my toddler niece and our parents to a nice sushi lunch to celebrate while our other six kiddies were at school.
What fun we had, after having just attended my twin daughters’ fourth-grade “Frosty the Snowman” play earlier that morning. It was delightful.
Walking back to my car, my iPhone flashed with breaking
news: A gunman had open-fired at a Newtown, Conn., elementary school, killing 26 people, including 20 children. My heart grew heavy. I wept.
The next few days were spent praying for these sweet little angels
and the six teachers who tried
valiantly to protect them, their bloody bodies still in their classrooms, their parents not allowed to see them for close to 48 hours because it was a crime scene.
I tried to imagine the pain the parents were going through, being told a madman went on a killing spree where their babies went to be safe and to learn, then waiting to be reunited with them, to see if they made it out alive.
It must’ve been an eternity for the parents in that firehouse, as the first responders slowly gathered and released the survivors, one by one. How happy they must’ve been to collect their kids and bring them home … and how impossibly sad for those whose children never emerged.
Like so many of you, especially those who are lucky enough to be parents, I’ve been crying off and on this past week, often unexpectedly, many times uncontrollably.
I’ve hugged my three young daughters longer, tighter and more often. Because of this unprecedented tragedy, I am thankful for them, their health, their uniqueness. Because of this senseless barbarism, I am prouder of their strengths, more patient with their weaknesses.
