Standing and Waiting

I always felt for the kids who were picked last for everything. Even now, my chest will ache at some silver screen footage of kids hoping for a pudgy finger to point in their direction, of them standing and waiting for someone to call their name and rescue them from another gym class Debacle.

In school, I was seldom among the first kids to get picked for kickball teams and group projects.  I was rarely the last kid standing, either. Falling in the middle, and playground politics being as volatile as they were, I could never be sure if "today might be the Last Kid day." It wasn't until I was finally making my way to one team or the other that the adrenaline and waves of anxiety would subside and I could, once again, acknowledge the existence and plight of other human beings. Relief was quickly replaced by pangs of guilt as the remaining cluster of classmates awkwardly stood and waited for someone to call their name, for someone to rescue them from Last.

I thought of this schoolyard scene, not ironically, as I imagined the last parents at Sandy Hook Elementary School, waiting for someone to point at them, to hear their names being called.  Two hours after the unthinkable massacre, there were still parents waiting --hoping-- to be reunited with their children. With mounting waves of panic, they were standing and waiting to be rescued from Heartbreak.

Even the passing thought of losing a child is dizzying for a parent. The reality of losing a child drains a parent of thought, emotion, spirit and will. Watching the paramedics kneel over my son so many years ago and, subsequently, trailing their racing ambulance to Children's Hospital, I remember how eerie the waiting felt. The muted moments were void of any rambling thoughts, any trouble-shooting plans, not even any fully formed prayers. My entire being was committed to two things: watching and waiting. The only two words that echoed in my head were "God, please." Any energy that wasn't spent on hope, I used to try and quell the terror wrenching through my gut.  From the first phone call to the last rites, we waited two hours before  hearing the news that our son was gone.

Like so many people gripped by the perverse tragedy, I am heartbroken for every Newton family.  Hearing the description of parents left standing and waiting for news, however, is what moved me from a heavy heart to tears. I know that each second of waiting crashed violently into the next. That they felt the weight of every minute in their knees and on the slope of their shoulders. How the hours leaned into their chests until their breath came thin and weak.  For the days, weeks and lifetime stretching ahead, I pray for them all to once again discover peace. It will come. They will have to wait, but peace will find them again.