I thought I could do it. I thought I should do it, to resume this blog without mentioning the ache we all have about what happened Friday in Connecticut. I even wrote a different post, figuring we’d heard enough of the pain, the insanity, the grief that has only begun.

But I read stories to my babies tonight, tucked them in, heard them laugh, inhaled the clean, springtime smell of their damp hair after a hot bath. And I have to say I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry that there are moms and dads tonight who would give anything and beyond to smell the curly hair of their little one, to kiss the nose of their kindergartner, to read a silly story to their second grader, and to bury their faces into a sweaty neck after a soccer goal, a dance recital, a backyard race.

I’m so, so sorry, I can barely stand up under the sorrow, and I’m grieving only from afar.

We were out of town last weekend and did not watch much coverage on the shooting. Our children were always within ear- and eye-shot and we kept the television off. But then I was standing in the airport, and I caught the tail end of a story about two little boys, boys Mitchell’s age, and I saw their grinning, toothless faces, and big, hot tears came flooding down my cheeks.

What will those mothers do tonight? How will they get up tomorrow?

Oh, Jesus, come soon. Make it right. I take great comfort in knowing You wept, too, at death’s temporary victory. You got furious at injustice. You are the One who set eternity in our hearts. You know where we are, and Your face is not turned from us.

May God have mercy on our broken, fragile hearts.

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