This image was taken this spring at the University of Oregon in Eugene, a piece north of Roseburg where the shooting at Umpqua Community College took place this morning. I felt it represented the emptiness that many souls in Oregon may feel tonight, and the ordinariness of a space in a college campus that can change from peaceful to terrifying in an instant.
My daughter is now in college in Washington State, and even a state away, this kind of tragedy is too close to home. Having lived in Colorado during the Columbine shooting, when Kelsea was very small, I found that too hit close to home as well, simply because I had a child who was just starting school. Letting your child go to a place that is supposed to be safe, and then realizing that there is no such thing anymore, elicits a level of deep, maternal, instinctive, protective fear. I won’t get started on the dynamics I have had with my daughter of wanting to protect her, because that’s a very long story, and that’s an area in which she has always insisted on making her own decisions. I know exactly what her decision would be in an incident like today’s. She would be the one running in to stop things, not the one running out to safety. And that’s a fact I have to live with, that she would give her own life to save another person’s.
As a residual from Columbine, and listening to her talk about some of the attitudes at her high school, I was always a bit angsty about a school shooting there, but I thought that feeling would pass when she went to college. Apparently, I was wrong. I know though, that worrying does no good, and helps no one. I have no control over the actions of others. I can only put a white light around my daughter 1399.9 miles away every day and every night and hope it makes a difference.
Tonight, I say prayers for and send white light to those parents, students, and friends whose lives changed forever today. And for my friends in the Bahamas and North Carolina, to keep them safe from the ravages of Hurricane Joaquin.
Quote of the day: “She was asleep in her freshly made bed. I can’t explain how relieved I felt for this simple mercy. She was here and safe on clean sheets.” — Laura Anderson Kurk
Daily gratitudes:
Mr. Man
The hope that a new doctor will help my pinched nerve
Work
Seeing things before they’re gone
Working towards our future
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October 1, 2015 at 11:41 pm
tellmeastorymick
Wow. Such a lovely, poignant tribute. I really appreciated this. With Olivia now 13, I have these thoughts, as well. I was in Florida during Columbine. But I saved the magazines and am still haunted by it…the way schools became unsafe things to me as a parent. The quote you added hit home for me, too. My daughter stays with her mom a bit more than she does with me. So I was washing her sheets tonight, and missing her was painful. My grandson, Caiden is almost 4 npw and I am lucky to be able to watch him a lot. Last night I put him to bed. He likes to sleep on blankets in my room. He pays down then automatically and sleepily always calls out: “Papa…you come lay with me?” I usually say “In a minute,” then he’s asleep before I get there. Last night I made a special point to respond right away. He made one of those peaceful little sighs kids male when they feel content and safe as I laid by him and put my arm around him. Then after he fell asleep, I went to be and I remember thinking how wonderful it feels to know he is right there, safe. I’m not his parents and hosting parents aren’t together but both share custody. So there’s not much I’m able to control in the safety area if he isn’t here. But as I fell asleep last night I felt that feeling that your quote captures. Thanks for reminding me of it again. ♡
October 2, 2015 at 8:37 pm
Seasweetie
Thank you, Mick. I too went through what you are going through with Olivia – Kelsea stayed at her Dad’s more than she did with me, so I know the missing of her. And the nighttime ritual was always me saying “Sweet dreams” and her saying “See you in the morning”. It always felt like she was saying that to reassure herself that it would be so. I miss that now too.