What do you say to things like this, this thing in Newtown, CT? There’s a lot you want to say, but the words just don’t seem strong enough. You take slow, shallow breaths. while you process the event, the numbers. Your heart breaks. Twenty-eight dead, twenty children. Just for the human connection it breaks. And you ache for the parents, for their loss. And for a moment, a small, stabbing, quiet moment you choke when you think about the children in your own life. How easily could it be any one of them, all of them? In that one moment, you want so much for it never to be them on either side of the gun that you ache for that, too. And you pray, God or no God– thank God, they’re alright– that it never is them. And you breathe for the living as well as the lost.