If I die tonight at age 51, someone at my funeral will likely say something like, “Her life was cut short by [fill in the disease or accident]. But at age 51 I’ve already lived a lot. I’ve been married for 26 years. While childless by choice I have loved a niece and nephew more than anyone can imagine. I’ve buried my father and I’m watching my mother kick-it as an 87-year-old. I’ve become credentialed in one career and I’m back in school learning new things. One day I was on the ground with a torn ACL trying to fight off a foaming-at-the-mouth dog until a neighbor came to my rescue. I’ve hiked some of the most scenic trails you can imagine. I’ve battled clinical depression and lived to tell about it on the other side. I’ve seen the Southern Cross. I’ve completed nine half marathons and three or four sprint triathlons. I’m training for my second attempt at a full marathon. I’ve sat with friends and laughed until I hyperventilated. In short, I’m blessed.
While I hope I have MANY vibrant years ahead of me, I’ve enjoyed a full life. Not so for the precious children who were killed in Connecticut today. And the adults who were killed had dreams that died with them.
This isn’t a post about gun control. Or mental illness. Or family discord. There will be plenty of that in the days ahead.
This is just a post from someone who feels incredibly sad. This is a post written by someone who will never again grumble when stuck in traffic behind a slow-moving school bus, especially in the afternoons when children are returning safely home.
This is just a post from someone who would like to make sense of it, but is unable to do so.