History Repeats Itself, Sandy Hook and Judas

On December 14th, 2012 at around 9:30 a.m., twenty-six people were killed at Sandy Hook Elementary School by a 20-year old kid with a gun.  Twenty of them were children--first graders. 

On December 14th, 2012 around 6:30 p.m., we bundled our children until they couldn't move their arms to attend Holiday Nights at the Henry Ford Village.  As I buttoned their coats, I pulled them close and pressed my cheek against theirs. 

It felt wrong that we should be doing anything so enjoyable while mothers and fathers were sick with grief.  It felt wrong that worlds were shattered, but ours was still in tact.  

We walked through the Village arm in arm.  We smiled and talked about our week pretending that all was right with the world.

It was cold out and our breath rolled off of our lips in a white fog.

"What's that?" my four-year old wondered aloud.

"It's your breath," I said.

"What's bref?" he asked.

"It's air that flows in and out of your body," I grappled with words, "It tells us that you are breathing."

"What's breaving?"

"It tells us that you are alive," I answered.  The words hung heavy in the air.  

Our sweet child was alive.  And twenty-six others were not.  Adults and children whose lives were ended in the blink of an eye.

I won't lie.  I stood grateful.  God, was I grateful.  But I fully recognized that another mother sat telling her little boy that his sister would not be coming home from school that day.  Not ever.

Bonfires glowed and hands felt the rough bark of sticks that browned marshmallows.  Carolers sang in tightly-knit circles, their hands being warmed by furry muffs.

Silent Night echoed throughout the moonlit streets.  We listened and prayed in our hearts for those whose night was not silent at all, but filled with the sobs that wake you even in your sleep.

We listened to horses trot, drank hot apple cider and earnestly longed for a time when living seemed gentler.

We sang about the birth of the One and mourned the death of so many.

We warmed our children's hands with our own and thanked God for one more day.

Innocent blood was shed.

Two thousand years ago and a million times in between.  It's the age old tragedy of the human condition.

Children who did nothing wrong at the mercy of a deranged man with a gun.

A man who did nothing wrong, but was betrayed with a kiss by his companion. 

Mothers wept.

Men suffered.

Judas hung himself.  A murder suicide.

Betrayal.

Anger.

So many questions.

Revenge upon the innocent.

A heart grieved.

And yet again, we find ourselves hoping for redemption.  Praying for peace.  We wring our hands and beg to be delivered from such suffering.

Today and two thousand years ago...and a million times in between, we pray, "Come, Lord Jesus, come."