RANDOM

Twice today, I drove past Chardon, Ohio.

Enroute to Daughter's college, I didn’t notice the exit.

Heading home, Daughter - a recent high school graduate - pointed it out to me.

“There’s that town, Mom,” she said, grabbing hold of my wrist. “One of the guys in my dorm grew up there. He went to that high school.”

She and I did not veer off the I-90 and drive into Chardon.

We didn’t have to pass the high school, coffee shops, grocery store and houses of worship to bear witness to the sorrow, devastation, horror, and bewilderment that has gripped the community since three high school students were fatally shot and two others were seriously wounded in a random attack by a 17-year-old student.

She and I understand that fear, heartbreak, and grief all too well.

In eleven short years - in towns miles and miles away from Ohio - we have been members of communities who have lived and grieved through the 9/11 attacks on the World Trade Centers, the crash of Continental Flight 3407, and the random abduction and murder of a young friend’s mom. 

 

Random acts of violence and shocking, senseless death are etched into our psyches.

Driving past Chardon, Ohio, through rain and winds that rocked our little car, I imagined a town besieged by a swarm of media, heartbreaking wakes and funerals, tears, anger, hopelessness, desire for answers and revenge. I knew the citizens of that small town were hugging their heroes, and holding each other close.

As Daughter reached for my hand, I imagined the phone call.

The news bulletin scrolling across the bottom of the TV screen.

  

The panicked rush to school.

“Is my child safe? Unharmed? Alive?”

Pounding rain. Wicked winds.

“You’re here. You’re safe,” I whispered,  visualizing the countless numbers of parents, spouses, friends, lovers who have awakened that one random morning, blissfully unsuspecting that the day’s events are going to rip their world –and hearts - to pieces.

In Chardon, Ohio, three teenage boys – sons, grandsons, brothers, friends - will soon be laid to rest.

I do not know those boys, those families, that community.

But I feel a smidgeon of their pain.

And a depth of gratitude that is both immeasurable and inexpressible, knowing that I’ll soon look in on my daughter who, along with her siblings, is once again sleeping safely and soundly in the bedrooms upstairs.

Tears, and prayers, for those countless parents, spouses, friends, and lovers whose rooms and hearts are empty.