I heard about the shooting on the morning news, shocked that it occurred in the tiny town where I used to live. I couldn’t believe that someone would gun down two young men on the street just like that at 1 o’clock in the morning. One dead, one critically injured. Not there, no way. Not in this quiet to the point of boring family town where I used to live. It’s where my kids grew up.
My son and former husband still live there. That evening, my daughter had driven over to celebrate a good friend’s birthday. The girls would have been driving back home about the time of the shooting, and I became nervous. I later read her friend’s Facebook post about wondering what was going on as she drove home when she saw all the police lights and heard a helicopter above.
A few hours later my cell phone rang. It was my daughter, sobbing so hard that I could barely make out her words. Or maybe I just did not want to comprehend what she was saying.
The one who was killed was the youngest son of her father’s longtime girlfriend. Unbelievable.
An intense wave of grief for the senseless, savage loss of her precious son practically knocked me down. I anchored myself on this thought: She would probably be spending Mother’s Day making funeral arrangements.
That’s unbearably sad to contemplate, let alone do.
Lord, keep her strong! May her children–and mine–be a comfort to her now and always.