I’m From Newtown

Tonight, as we were Christmas shopping for his brother, eight-year old Cole asked me this.

This.

“Mommy, what did you think when you first saw me?”

This? Two heart-draining, soul-breaking days after twenty precious children the same age as Chase lost their lives in a horrific way.

In the home of my childhood…in a school where I spent six years walking familiar, safe halls, laughing and learning and making friends, where I skipped around blacktop and played the recorder in music class and drew picture after picture of horses and farms and grew into who God planned for me to become.

Oh, Newtown. My heart aches and aches with you and yours and over those short, precious lives.

Twenty precious children. 20.

Lord, rain your grace on them. Like a healing flood, pour it out.

What did you think when you first saw me?

And I wonder beyond Cole’s question…how can they say goodbye?

Lord, I know Your mercy is in the heavens and I know those children are in Your Son’s arms now. Safe. They’re safe, but their parents…please guard those parents from the last images of their children and instead paint the beauty of their births, of their precious and unique lives and smiles fully and completely across the horizon of their memory.

Oh Newtown, home of my heart, what pain stretches across your beautiful green trees and haphazard hills, sharp and steep and perfect for sledding? What anguish traces your winding roads and brick-front buildings and friendly parks?

Twenty precious children.

My eyes pour out what is tight and close to my heart. Emotion and memory wrap into the deep pain permeating the sweet little town of my childhood, where I slipped between trees and climbed rocks bigger than a truck with Veronica and Mindy and learned to read and write and swing upside down on monkey bars with Katie. Where I counted dandelions with Wendy and prayed the child’s prayer of “let it snow tonight” and skipped between large green footprints tracing the parking lot at school, footprints left by the mysterious Jolly Green Giant before the annual fair. Where I lead my birth state of Illinois through our 5th grade parade of states and learned to love the written word in the Sandy Hook Elementary School library and tried to find out where in the world Carmen Sandiego was on computers that would confound and frustrate today.

Sandy Hook, where I was nurtured and encouraged and ushered into my God-ordained gift of writing by my 5th grade teacher Cathy Mazzariello, who owns my lifelong gratitude and whose name will appear on the dedication page of my first published book. Where I watched my teachers hug and weep at the Challenger’s explosion and learned against my wishes to square dance in the gym and multiply too many numbers and where I wrote a twelve-page book called Attack of the Killer Onions.

Oh, Newtown. Not you. Not them.

Twenty precious children. 20.

Memories flash bright and beautiful like the fireworks at the Newtown Golf Course on the 4th of July, their vibrant colors reflecting off the Town Park Pool, where Kellie and I spent hours doing hand stands and diving board cannonballs and daring to touch the bottom under the dock. Where we played Red Rover on grassy fields dotted white with clover and ate ring pops reflecting summer’s golden light and spent one whole dollar to watch movies from the Town Hall balcony.

Oh, Newtown.

“What did you think when you first saw me?” Cole asked.

I think of Chase, our six-year old first grader, and my heart splinters off pieces again, knowing one of the children killed shared his name while another child shared his birthday.

Lord, rain down Your grace and peace over Newtown. Over the schools and hurting people and Ram’s Pasture and over the beautiful New England homes and the Ice Cream Parlor and the Blue Colony Diner and everywhere. Comfort the broken-hearted as only You can.

Oh, Newtown.

Twenty precious children.

What did you think when you first saw me? Cole asked, his voice smiling with curiosity.

“Daddy and I fell in love with you. We fell in love with you and Chase when you were born, and nothing can change that.”

Nothing.

Turtle Twin

What’s in the road?

I had just turned into our development when I saw the awkward obstacle straddling the yellow lines of the main road. A small turtle came into view as I slowly approached in our truck.

My mind jumped back three days to the painful sight of our old and beloved Florida Cooter, Quinne, deceased in our backyard pond. Though Quinne lived a good long life, it had been a tearful and difficult time for our family when we said goodbye to the friendly amphibian we owned for over a decade.

A low sigh slipped through my lips at the sight of the traveling turtle. Both boys recognized the soft emotion shaping my outburst, and they immediately perked up to investigate its cause.

“A turtle! Let’s get it!”

“Mom, can we pull over and rescue it?”

Their pleading questions overlapped like thick blankets on a cold winter night. Since they were little – and because turtles and road meet often in Florida – we had rescued dozens of turtles from roadways.

Gas pumps aren’t the only reason I carry hand sanitizer in my car; wild turtles are often caught and tossed in the back of the truck to be carried to a safer and wetter environment than the roaring roadway.

Still, I hesitated, mainly because the road wasn’t a busy one and the turtle was inching closer to his destination of more aquatic square footage. But I also heard the eagerness in their voices and realized this particular rescue might help heal the heart wound of losing Quinne.

I parked the truck safely out of traffic’s way and reminded the boys that I would get the turtle and they were to stay on the sidewalk. We trotted toward the suddenly shy turtle, whose body parts disappeared as he spotted our approach. I checked for cars then moved in to pick the little fellow up.

To my surprise a black and yellow-striped head peeked out. His face was nearly the same shape that Quinne’s had been, though a smaller version. A Florida Cooter?

Quinne’s twin!

“He looks like Quinne!” Chase shouted the words and I nodded mutely, feeling a tightening in my throat as we took him to the water’s edge. We rescued many turtles throughout the years, but never one that looked so much like Quinne.

Until today. Glazed sadness turned slow circles into the clear, sparkling stained glass of gratefulness for God’s mercy.

“But the mercy of the Lord is from everlasting to everlasting, On those who fear Him, and His righteousness to children’s children.”  ~ Psalm 103:17

I placed the turtle a few feet from the pond’s edge and we squatted down to watch. The clarity of the moment sunk in like a clear, crisp imprint on my heart, warm sunlight and dancing dragonflies and the turtle twin we’d rescued at our feet.

“He does look like Quinne. His face and his shell. Look at the yellow stripes on his head.” Cole whispered loudly.

“It’s a little Quinne!” Chase’s excited voice carried across the windy day, causing the small turtle to turn back into a headless and legless shell.

“I think God gave us this as a special gift today, to remind us about Quinne and that He loves us.” My words seared the moment to memory.

I love opportunities to share God’s goodness and mercy with our boys. As a parent, it’s the pinnacle of my life and day to point out God’s perfect care weaving through our lives and hurts and pain and joy.

We watched quietly for a few minutes, until Quinne’s twin realized just how close the sparkling water was. Like a shot he darted into the water, leaving a mud trail under the clear surface and disappearing from our view. On the walk back to the truck, Chase grabbed my hand, squeezing my palm and my heart tightly together.

“I’m glad we rescued him. He reminded me of Quinne.”

I turned my face up, up, higher - toward the clouds dotting the bright blue sky.

“Me, too, honey.”

Your mercy, O Lord, is in the heavens, Your faithfulness reaches to the clouds. ~ Psalm 36:5

Thank You that You who laid the foundations of the earth know how to warm a mother’s heart and heal my children’s hurts. Thank You that Your mercy reaches to the heavens and Your faithfulness to the clouds.