Tragedy

The Lord is close to the brokenhearted, and saves those who are crushed in spirit.

Psalm 34:18

Friday started out like any other day.  I left for work before the sun came up, and Joel took Sebastian to school and headed off to work himself.  I got to class, turned on the computers, went over the day's lessons, drank my coffee, and welcomed the sophomores as they trickled into the classroom.  It wasn't until late morning that I logged onto the computer and a red banner rolled across the top of my screen.  Breaking News: 26 dead, including 20 children in Connecticut school shooting.  

Immediately I thought of Sebastian.  He was asleep when I left and I hadn't even seen him yet that day.  On Fridays I volunteer after school so I wouldn't be picking him up until 6:30 that evening.  That would be over seven hours away.  No, that wouldn't do - I needed to see him immediately.  My first instinct was to leave.  To pick up my baby early, hug him tightly, and savor every moment with him.   

I glanced around the room at the quietly working students.  Hard at work, they were oblivious to this tragedy.  I watched them, wondering if they were taking their safety for granted.  How easily it can be disrupted.  I thought of their families, their friends, their crushes, their drama, their after school plans, their futures.  When we send our kids off to school in the mornings, we expect that they'll come home safely at the end of the day.  How tragic that this is not always the case.  I reminded myself of my commitment to these kids, and finished out the day, mothering each student far more than usual.

After school it was so hard for me to drive past Sebastian's preschool, to Children of the Valley, where I volunteer (I'll talk more about this organization in a different post).  The sun was setting and seemed so much later than normal, reminding me of how long it had been since I had last seen my son.  I reminded myself of my commitment to these children and, walking into COV, I was instantly warmed by sweet little faces.  These kids live in poverty, and many of them know tragedy all too intimately.  Heartbroken that so many of them were there (rather than being picked up early by their families), I dove in and loved on them for the next two hours.

I was overjoyed when I finally was able to pick up my son.  I nearly lost it when I saw that he was one of the last kids at school.  Most other parents had acted on their instincts and picked up their little ones early.  I headed into the building, checked him out at the front desk, and walked down the long hallway.  Most of the classrooms were dark, uninhabited and eerily silent.  The usual life that surrounds this walk was absent.  At the end of the hallway, I poked my head into the preschool classroom.  I saw Sebastian laughing and playing, and the heaviness in my heart melted.  I hugged my baby tightly, helped him put on his little coat, hat, and backpack, and we walked back down the long hallway together.  His little voice filled the silence so beautifully and, distracted by our conversation, I was oblivious to the dark classrooms that had earlier felt so haunting.

"Mom, can we go to Taco del Mar for dinner?" he asked as we climbed into the car.  Our family rarely eats out, but at that moment nothing in the world sounded better.