Do Something by Liz Flaherty

Wednesday - This morning, when I came out to the office, my hands were full and I had no pockets. Why on earth would I have bought something with no pockets? But I carried everything out, looking at the tree in the east and marveling at the red streak of day's beginning. When I got into the office, I laid everything down and took off my sweater. The one I'd worn wrong side out and had two really nice pockets on the inside. Aside from feeling a little goofy, I was really glad I hadn't bought a sweater without pockets. And that, unlike me, the tree knew how to look its best so early in the day and even when it takes its sweater off soon, it will do it beautifully. Also unlike me.

Those were the last good thoughts of the day.

In Georgia today, yet another shooter cut loose in a school and killed four people and injured several more. He was 14 years old and he used a gun his father had given him.

It was suggested by a politician that "we have to get over it," by another that shootings are "a fact of life" and that “We don’t have to like the reality that we live in, but it is the reality we live in. We’ve got to deal with it.”

But we don't deal with it, do we? Since so many deep-pocketed lobbyists insist more stringent gun laws won't help, we tell them that's okay, because the money in their pockets and the guns they carry matter more than the kids who are in our schools, our homes, our hearts. We suggest arming teachers instead of disarming madmen. Because teachers don't have enough to do, after all.

Sure. Makes sense. Thoughts, prayers, and deep, bitter anger are with the families of those lost in Winder, Georgia this week. The most fervent of my prayers are that maybe this time, something will be done. 

Thursday - It was a good day. Great time with a great friend. Good lunch. Writing. Reading. My favorite kinds of things.

Friday - I wrote a lot today, made a lot of progress on book #22 (or so.) It begins to feel right as the words slip out of the keyboard, as my fingers seem to move on their own over the keys. It is a good writing day, a good thinking day.

Two teachers died in the shooting, one of them a father, the other a woman who couldn't have biological kids but who loved the ones she taught. Two students who had a lot more to do in their lives than worry about book #22.

My grandson played soccer for his school this week. Our school won their football game tonight. Did the people on the bleachers look from side-to-side? Did the parents of players and cheerleaders watch the sidelines for someone who didn't look right? Someone who might do harm to their very reasons for living?

How could I have had a good writing day when people in Georgia are preparing to bury their children? Guilt is a noisy companion. I don't sleep much. I don't sleep well. I have thoughts and prayers far into the night.

They're not enough. Not nearly enough. We need to Do Something.

“We are so sure we know what freedom is in America that we cannot imagine a world in which true freedom might come after sacrifice of personal rights. Freedom is sending your kids to school with confidence that they will come home at the end of the day.” — Taylor Schumann, author of When Thoughts and Prayers Aren’t Enough

Saturday. -

Last year in March, I wrote this in part after dropping donuts off at school:

I don't know most of these kids' names, although I'm sure I know some of their parents and many of their grandparents. I don't know who's at the top of their class and who hasn't turned in any homework since kindergarten. I don't know, sitting in my car, whose language would scorch my ears and who never learned the value of please, thank you, or a dollar earned. I don't know who shops at boutiques and who combs the clearance racks and who depends on the kindness of strangers. I don't know who worries about being bullied, who bullies, and who doesn't give a damn either way. 

I don't know any of that and frankly, that morning in the school driveway and this morning as I write this, I don't care. I want them all to graduate, to run whatever bases their lives bring them, to walk the fields of whatever is their passion, and to have more adventures than their parents can bear worrying about. My prayer for them is always the same, and I cry with the fear of it not being answered.

Keep them safe. 

 Yes, that. Still.

There's nothing new here, is there. Just more of the devastating same. Sometimes I don't think I can stand it.

Not at all the post I thought I'd have today. I planned to continue on from the first paragraph in that same vein. Of silly slipups and laughter. Of lunch with a beloved friend, a meeting with other friends, a piece of Roberta Struck's apple pie, and supper one night at the B & K.

I did, indeed, have a good week. I hope you did, too. But I don't have it in me to celebrate today.

Be nice to somebody.