Day Seven, After May 31, 2022
I have been bent and broken, but, I hope, into a better shape.” – Grimm
The “me” before May 24, 2022, is a different “me” than today.
A week ago, I was in downtown Sabinal running errands on my day off and witnessed LEO
vehicles blazing through town with lights flashing and sirens blaring, one after the other, all
heading west. For some reason I felt compelled to follow them, all the way to Knippa. I knew
something bad, very bad, had happen. They were passing me at least 100 mph – all
different LEO vehicles, plus EMS and strange white trucks with white camper shells.
Once in Knippa (ten miles east of Uvalde), I pulled over at Ede & Co – where I was told
there was a school shooting in Uvalde. I drove home fearful, talking to my coworkers at the
Library on Bluetooth during my drive to learn if their children and grandchildren were okay.
They had heard the shots, and several of the staff had gone to find their loved ones. That
was at noon (little did we know the siege would last for another hour!).
Seven hours later, after watching KEN 5 the entire time, and hearing Governor Abbott’s live
announcement about the casualties (no, that cannot be true!), I turned the TV off and went
outside. I live on a hill, Stone Ridge, on a secluded ranch 20 miles east of Uvalde where I
have a 360 degree view for miles. Every evening I take sunset pictures of my grandfather’s
windmill by our house, and, on that Tuesday evening, the celestial show was astounding.
Incredibly beautiful.
But the forecasted storm was beginning to roll in, so I put my phone down and sat on my
driveway. I couldn’t help but look southwest towards Uvalde as the dust from the
neighboring fields swirled up into the dark blue clouds. The winds had hit there but where I
was sat upon the hill, it was peaceful and calm. And as I watched the turbulent display of
nature from my concrete perch, the tears burst forth.
I cried until the advancing winds finally reached my hillside, the temperature dropped, and
the windmill began spinning, groaning as it twirled. I could relate to that groan. The dark
clouds obscured the sunset, and dust blew into my eyes. Didn’t matter. I got up slowly,
wiping the dirt and tears away, and went back inside the house as darkness fell and the
thunder began from the storm.
Seven days later, and I have not cried since. There’s been a tear or two, but nothing like the
first night. I’ve been too busy. I pour myself into writing. If I am not writing, I am working.
And everyone I work with at the Library has been too busy, even in their personal lives.
There is too much to do with all the outpouring of sympathies, help, donations, projects,
memorials, ministering, counseling, and, yes, the funerals. And don’t forget the graduations,
the Memorial Day celebrations, even the investigations that uncover something that went
wrong during the siege (it changes every day!)
We don’t have time in Uvalde to mourn. Truthfully. We were supposed to have a moment of
quiet at noon today for 21 minutes to reflect on our loss. That didn’t happen. We tried, but
the phones rang, people needed help, questions answered, books checked out … we just
looked at each other and shrugged. What can you do? Life goes on.
The rest of the World sends us messages of crying for us, being emotionally worn out,
consumed with anxiety. We want to say, “Can you take a number and wait your turn? We’d
like time to grieve too.” My co-workers and I talk about how we ache to mourn. We want to
weep, to huddle in our bed under the covers, but there is no time. The World has stopped
for a visit and its three days is over, but it will not leave like a good guest. As is, I am so
thankful I had time to stop at the Plaza last Thursday to see the crosses before the World
descended — I treasure that stolen moment of reflection.
Basically, I think we in Uvalde just want our lives back – our daily routines that brought us
comfort. We want the anonymity of our small-town life. We want the “before May 24th” and
if we cannot have that, we want our sorrow “because of May 24th.” But right now, we have
no time but to try and survive, address the needs of the hurting families (adults and
children), and trust in God to see us all through this.
We are bent and broken. God alone knows what the shape will be once we heal, once we
are allowed to heal. We must trust that it will be “better.” Until then, we stay united in the
knowledge that we will get through this. That is our mantra. We will get through this; with the
Lord’s help, we will get through this. [Repeat as necessary.]
We will get through this … and we will do it together because WE ARE #UvaldeStrong.
