I have been thinking a lot about Sandy Hook this week. Twelve years and just a few days ago, I was standing in my then girlfriend’s kitchen (now wife of 10 years) as we were preparing to go somewhere, I don’t even remember where. I was scrolling Twitter and started seeing breaking news about a shooting at an elementary school somewhere in Connecticut, where we lived. Then I realized it was in Newtown, virtually next door to Westport where she worked as a minister and I (still in grad school) was helping to run educational programming at her church. We scrapped our plans and drove to her office. We saw fear in our students’ faces. We saw it even more painfully in their parents: they all knew someone in Newtown, it was another wealthy Connecticut suburb like theirs, it was supposed to be “safe”. How could this happen here? We heard from colleagues in Newtown who had been thrust into the middle of unspeakable tragedy. We held vigils. We did them again the next year. And the year after that.
To be clear: I was not a victim of Sandy Hook, but it took on a special significance in my consciousness and every year in mid-December I find myself mentally back in that place, with new meaning each time. I watch students I have worked with over the years grow up and think “those kids at Sandy Hook should have gotten this chance.” They would be wrapping up their first semesters of college now. I see Christmas lights and gifts under trees and think “those families will always experience this time of year that is supposed to be joy and light as a reminder of terror and death.” I have kids of my own now who are about the same age as the victims were, and so the anniversary hits even more close to the very core of my being. And then twelve years almost to the day later, another shooting in Madison, another set of families who will forever experience sadness when this season rolls around.
I don’t have a conclusion to this. I can’t tie it up in a nice bow. It’s an open wound that we have collectively chosen should be left to fester. And I will never understand that choice. I will never have sympathy for anyone who chooses political power at the price of children’s lives. I’m fairly certain there’s a ring of hell dedicated specifically to that, occupied by the likes of King Herrod from the Christmas story. I will never be convinced that an amendment premised on the need for maintaining a “well-regulated militia” is somehow meant to undergird un-regulated chaos and home-grown terror. I will never accept that this is the price of freedom or that it has to be this way. It doesn’t, that’s non-sense. I will always feel a deep suspicion towards those who spout “conspiracy theories” because of the way the Newtown families were treated.
I found this article in
@TheAtlantic helpful. This is not happy Christmas reading. But in its way it fits into the advent season’s story arc: the deep longing for healing and peace and the journey it takes to get there.
https://www.theatlantic.com/ideas/archive/2024/12/sandy-hook-parents-twelve-years/680994/#
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christmas
I fuhgoddaboudit