I see my children in everything I do and see. They are the reason I sniffle over halmark commercials, get absorbed in Dragon Tales and they are the reason I cannot watch the news.
My children are my tears when I read about the little girls in the little one room school room who were not protected by God but now rest in his hands.
What are we doing to our innocents? These separated few. These passive, quiet, peaceful few. Our innocence rests in them to a certain degree. They are a promise kept. A vision of ourselves that reflects clear and true.
How then do we bring such blood shed to them. How does someone plan a group molestation and murder undetected? How are we so unconnected from each other that this man was married and a member of society and still packed a bag full of lube, guns and rope and set off for an Amish school house on a rampage based on his past indiscretions, that turn out to be false anyway?
My heart bleeds for those little girls as they lay dying on the wood plank floor.
I see my baby there with her little pig tails and little attitude. She is afraid of Elmo costumes and men in uniform. She is innocent in a way only a two year old can be innocent.
And yet she bleeds.