I was eleven years old the day twelve people were shot and killed in Aurora, Colorado. It was the first mass shooting I was able to understand, the first whose carnage I watched unfold on nationwide news, and the first whose victims my heart mourned. I was eleven.
I was eleven years old the day twenty-six people were shot and killed in Newtown, Connecticut. I don’t remember much about how the tragedy affected me except that, even as a child, it made me sick to my stomach. Children were killed. The nation was crying. Everything seemed wrong. I was eleven. Twenty of the victims were half my age.
I was fourteen years old the day nine people were shot and killed in Charleston, South Carolina. It was the first mass shooting that didn’t fill me up with sadness, but rather made my blood boil over in anger. My brothers and sisters in Christ, my family, had been attacked simply because they didn’t look like me from the outside. I was pissed. The only thing that brought me comfort was knowing the victims were being held, they were safe now. I was fourteen.
I was fourteen years old the day fourteen people were shot and killed in San Bernardino, California. I was a freshman in high school. I was set to start driver’s ed soon. I saw the news on Twitter and was shocked and saddened all over again. It was labeled a terrorist attack. I was fourteen.
I was fifteen years old the day forty-nine people were shot and killed in Orlando, Florida. It was the deadliest mass shooting in the history of our country. Some disregarded the victims because they were gay. Some were enraged because the shooter was tied to Islamic terror groups. Some cried and held their children tighter. I was fifteen.
I was sixteen years old the day fifty-eight people were shot and killed in Las Vegas, Nevada. It was the deadliest mass shooting in the history of our country. I was a junior in high school. It was early in the morning when I heard it on the radio; I don’t even think the sun had fully risen yet. Videos of people running and screaming were all over Twitter. I listened to interviews of artists who were set to perform. It hurt me deeply. I was sixteen.
I was sixteen years old the day twenty-six people were shot and killed in Sutherland Springs, Texas. It was only a month after Las Vegas, though it felt like mere moments. An entire family was killed. All they wanted was to worship. I was sixteen.
I was sixteen years old the day seventeen people were shot and killed in Parkland, Florida. It was Valentine’s Day. I was worried about school assignments. People my age were being shot. I remember being overwhelmed with the feeling that it could happen to me. What happened at Stoneman Douglas made me think of escape routes during fire drills. It made me wonder if my crying would echo off the bathroom walls, if I would be able to squat on the toilet seat long enough for the police to find me. Exactly a year later, when my school had an unplanned Code Red, it made me think… this is it. I was sixteen.
I was seventeen years old when ten people were shot and killed in Santa Fe, Texas. Another high school. I remember thinking to myself, “Ten… that’s not that many.” I hate myself for it. I was seventeen.
I was seventeen years old the day eleven people were shot and killed in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. I was taking a Holocaust and Genocide class in school. We learned about anti-semitism and how desensitized the Germans were to Nazi hatred. I wondered if we, too, were becoming desensitized. I was seventeen.
I was seventeen years old when twelve people were shot and killed in Thousand Oaks, California. Blame flew. Sides were chosen. Instead of twelve people, everyone focused their thoughts on donkeys and elephants. I remember hearing one of the victims had survived the Las Vegas attack. What are the odds? I thought. I was seventeen.
I was eighteen years old the day twelve people were shot and killed in Virginia Beach, Virginia. I saw the hashtag on Twitter. I didn’t even blink. I was eighteen.
I was eighteen years old the day twenty-two people were shot and killed in El Paso, Texas, and when nine others were shot and killed in Dayton, Ohio. I was walking in a Wal-Mart at the same time twenty-two people were being gunned down in one hundreds of miles away. No one talked about the victims. It was like their faces and names were replaced with everyone’s political agendas and unbridled rage, which was pointed not at the gunman, but at their own dissenters. Even the president responded with talk of immigration reform on the coattails of his grievances. I was eighteen.
In the past seven years, I have seen thirteen mass shootings. And those are just the ones whose death tolls were high enough to be seen as “significant.” We are at the point in our country where we’re applying significance to mass shootings, because there are so many and some of them just “don’t make the cut” of being terrible enough. I am at the point where I have become desensitized to this violence and hatred, and I am ashamed.
I don’t want to be used to a world where children die in their church pews and people of color feel targeted simply for their complexion. I don’t want to be used to a world where fifty-eight people can die and four hundred and eighty-two more can be injured by one man in ten minutes. I don’t want to be used to a world where news outlets thrive off of twisting the truth in tragedy. I don’t want to be used to a world where political agendas are more important than compassion, where being right takes precedence over someone’s life.
I don’t know how to fix it. I’m not a politician (praise the Lord), and the Lord didn’t establish within me a desire to become one. But the Lord did establish within me a compassion for His people, a heart that would be burdened by the suffering of others, and a trust that His ways are higher than mine. He also established within me a prayerful heart, and it angers me when people dismiss the POWER of prayer. I understand people want to see tangible change—most of the time because they only believe in what they can see—but I trust and believe in the power of prayer to provide that change, to provide peace to hurting mothers, brothers, wives, and children. So, please, don’t ask for change while dismissing prayer. You can’t have one without the other.
So, though my heart is heavy (and sad and angry and disappointed), I am grateful my joy does not abide by the sins of man, but by the grace of Jesus.
I pray for the families of those in El Paso and Dayton. But also for those in Virginia Beach, Thousand Oaks, Pittsburgh, Santa Fe, Parkland, Sutherland Springs, Las Vegas, Orlando, San Bernardino, Charleston, Newtown, Aurora, and everywhere that has been affected by gun violence, by death and tragedy. I pray for an urgency in the Kingdom—people need Jesus now more than ever. I pray for the Hour No One Knows, that it comes soon. I pray for a new hope and unity in our country, that pride loses its grasp on our leaders, their critics and their supporters, and that action will be swift. That we’d all realize this isn’t a fight between Democrat and Republican, between white and black, for guns and against them.
This is a fight for our nation’s soul.
