In Honor of the Newtown Shooting Victims

Life is ironic.  I have been traveling for the last fourteen months through notoriously dangerous countries--venturing into spear-filled jungles, walking through slums run by armed drug lords, and driving on some of the worst roads in the world. 

Yet, oddly, it wasn’t until I came home to suburban Connecticut for the holidays that I was exposed to one of the most gruesome events of my lifetime.  On December 14^th, I stood in shock with my state at the news that a madman had shot his way into a local elementary school and murdered several children as well as a few staff members.  I’d heard about shootings before, but never at an elementary school—and never so close to home.  Though “home” has become a relative term at this point in my life, Connecticut will always have a special place in my heart.  I suppose I’ve become a mix of East Coaster, Californian, African, and Latin American nomad; but my roots will forever be in Fairfield County, Connecticut.  I was born-and-bred here; my parents and little sister still live here, my older sister nearby.  While in South America, I dreamt of Connecticut many times, looking forward to a typical New England Christmas season—cozy nights by the fire, a potential snowstorm on Christmas Day, picking out a tree with the family, and wearing my snuggly Santa pajama pants.  My thoughts of Connecticut were comprised only of rest, relaxation, and peace.   Yet, the shocking news that school faculty and children in Fairfield County’s peaceful little Newtown was a sobering taste of reality.  Evil can happen anywhere.

The evening of the shooting, I received the appalling news that one of the victims was Mary Sherlach, the mother of my childhood friend Maura.  I was shocked.  I’ve known Maura since I was four or five years old.  Over the years, our reunions have evolved from elementary school birthday parties to the prom to weddings.  But the thought of having a reunion at a funeral home was beyond our worst nightmares.

I contacted Maura and turned on the news shortly after.   I stared at the television for three hours or so, horrified by what had just happened.  At times I broke down into tears.  At other moments I simply repeated, “I can’t believe it.  Oh God, I just can’t believe this.”  Eventually, I tried to go to bed but found it impossible to sleep.  I lay awake, watching hour after hour on my clock pass me by—two a.m., three a.m., four a.m.  I kept thinking about Maura and her family.  My heart broke for them.   I thought about the parents who had lost their six-year-olds.  I was sickened.  So many lives had been turned upside down in a moment.

The next few days were tearful ones.  It seemed everyone in the community was somehow connected to someone in the shooting.  Everyone I encountered looked like they were hurting.  Churches were filled with crying people.  Kids were scared to go back to school.  Pastors were overwhelmed.  One church lost eight children from its congregation.  Newtown residents struggled to do simple tasks like going to the grocery store, because the press had taken over.  Each day, the local paper announced which victim was being laid to rest that day.  Horrific.

I kept thinking about Maura, her sister Katy, and her dad Bill.  I wanted to do something—anything—to help them, but I knew I couldn’t fix a thing.  I prayed for them, but my prayers seemed weak.  “God, comfort them,” I asked, wondering how anyone could actually feel comforted after such devastating news.  I decided to visit the Sherlach home, wanting Maura to know that I loved her, if nothing else.  I walked into her house, immediately noticing her mom’s stocking still hung up on the fireplace, Christmas decorations filling the house.  Maura told me more details of what had just happened, still processing how her life had drastically changed in the past few days.  She confirmed that her mother, the school psychologist, had confronted the gunman with the principal and lost her life in an attempt to save others.  The last time I’d seen Mary Sherlach was at a wedding.  I had no idea I was looking at a hero.

Bill, Maura’s father, caught a glimpse of me and gave me a surprised smile.  “You’re in the country?!” he exclaimed.  “I’m so glad you’re here.”  He walked towards me and greeted me with a big hug and kiss.  “Good to see you, sweetie.  So glad you could come.  Maura is happy you are home. ” He smiled so warmly, but I knew his heart must be broken.

As Maura and I spoke, she asked me how my mom was doing.  I’d had my own scare a few years ago when my mom was suffering from cancer, and I feared I would lose her.  Of all my childhood friends, it had once looked like I would be the most likely to lose a parent early. Yet, my mom is now in her third year of remission, healthy and very much alive.  When I told Maura about her good health report, a genuine look of relief overtook her face.  “Oh good, I’m so happy to hear that.”  Here she was, suffering the loss of her own mother, yet selflessly celebrating the life of mine.

Two days later, my mom, little sister, and I went to Mary Sherlach’s wake.  800 people attended.  We waited in line outside for an hour before we could even get into the funeral home, then two more hours inside to get to the family.  I’d never seen anything like it.  Clearly, Mary had touched many lives and was well-loved.  Her family was extremely loved as well.  After finally making my way towards them, I was greeted with hugs from Maura, Katy, and Bill.  Maura gave my mom a huge hug and once again shared her happiness about her good health report.  “Mrs. Scudder, I’m so glad to hear you are healthy.  Congratulations!” she exclaimed.  I was blown away by her grace, selflessness, and compassion.  I saw a strength inside of her to which I can only aspire.  I walked back to the car, humbled by it all.  I wasn’t sure how I had ended up the lucky one and how Maura could be so gracious in the midst of suffering. 

The following day, I attended the funeral, praying that God would give a supernatural ability for the family to get through it.  The reception afterwards provided one last time to speak with the family.  When I said goodbye to Maura, I knew it would be months before I saw her again.  We hugged, feeling grateful we’d seen each other but obviously sad that it had been under such tragic circumstances.  And then, my heart almost breaking in two, Maura’s dad embraced me one last time with a warm hug and a big kiss.  “Goodbye sweetie; be safe.”  It seemed quite ironic that I was usually the one people worried about in regards to safety with all my travels to “dangerous” places.  Yet, Mary Sherlach had simply gone to school one day and never come home.  It just didn’t make sense.

The whole scenario is simply tragic.  The shooting was pure evil.  But somehow, in the midst of everything, I have seen good.  God has given us free will, and the shooter chose evil.  However, the Sherlach family and many others have chosen good.  In their actions and their hearts, I see the presence of God, and I am in awe.  God is three persons—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  In Maura, Katy, and Bill, I saw each facet of God displayed this week.  In Katy, I saw the Holy Spirit--the comforter.  She laid aside her own pain to console her father in his distress, linking arms with him and patting him on the back to comfort him. In Maura, I saw Jesus.  In John 19, while Jesus is hanging on the cross, he says to his mother, “Woman, behold, your son!”  He then says to his disciple John, “Behold, your mother!”  From that day forth, John took Mary into his household.  Even as Jesus suffered, he made sure his family was taken care of.  And in the same manner, Maura checked in on my family, showing concern for me and my mother--caring about others in the midst of her own heartache.  And lastly, in Bill, I saw the heart of God the Father.  Though I wanted to somehow take care of him, he approached me like a father, protective and concerned about my safety, not himself.  When he told me to be safe, I realized that no matter what, a father remains a father.  I saw the heartbeat of God manifesting through each member of the family.  Not one had chosen to match evil with evil.  Instead, they confronted it with love, light, and faith.

I am honored to know such an incredible family.  I am humbled by the interactions we’ve had this week.  I am thankful that despite the evil in the world, love is still winning.  And for all those who have beaten us to Heaven, I know that death, pain, and evil can never touch them again. 

For many people, this tragedy has somehow turned into a platform for their personal political agendas.  To be honest, the only agenda I care about right now is loving people better. I’m not so concerned about guns or video games or new laws or assigning blame.  I’m concerned about the people right in front of me—kind, genuine people whose hearts have been broken.  Sometimes I don’t know what to do or what to say or how to comfort those whom this tragedy has affected.  But I want to take a moment to say on paper how truly sorry I am for the lives the shooting has taken.  I want to say that my heart breaks for those who have lost a loved one, and I pray that God will mend your hearts.  And I want to honor the families, especially the Sherlach family, for showing such love and grace in the midst of it all.  Maura, Katy, Bill, and Newtown’s hero Mary—I genuinely admire each of you.  I honor and support you and will be praying for you in this coming season of healing.  I pray anyone who reads this will do the same.  God bless you all.