The ones that matter most are the children.  They are the true human beings. – Lakota Proverb

  I apologize for being quiet so long.  I’ve been watching the fall out of the past few weeks.  Protests, Video, Report, City Council and School Board Meetings …  I’ve watched the media come in and film it all, report on it all, make money from it all.  I’ve seen a local business harassed for charging regular price to do their business, school officials’ family members mocked, people disappointing others for not protesting or attending meetings … the list goes on.  

  If you are like me, you feel caught between opposing emotions, actions, thoughts, and opinions.  I admire the protesters for their conviction but understand those who don’t want to protest. I realize that the memorials in the Downtown Plaza brought comfort to some but can relate to the person who spoke of relief from having memorials removed because “maybe she could drive by without crying now.”  I wanted to watch the video but then heard the pleas of the families not to watch it, so I honored their requests only to be bombarded with segments of it on FB or the Nightly News.  I’ve cheered for those families who have spoken so eloquently in Washington DC and passionately at the July 11th protest yet grieved with the parents who condemned the leak of the video, which made them feel as if it were a repeat of “that day.” I sympathized with the righteous anger of the family members while crying silent tears with those who just wanted to grieve privately.  

  Yes, Uvalde has become a bundle of disconnectedness – emotions, actions, thoughts and opinions – that we juggle daily.  We walk on eggshells every single day.  We try not to say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing, act out the wrong thing.  Personally, I try hard “not to write the wrong thing”.  How do I balance what I put on paper with the fear of upsetting someone who I really want to help with my words?  It’s exhausting! I write and rewrite. I can only imagine what our community officials are going through, trying to do the right thing, and finding out it is the wrong thing for some citizens (case in point: memorials downtown).  You cannot win!

  And if you make the mistake of thinking everyone is agreeing with you, you’ve not won either because there are friends, neighbors, coworkers who don’t condone the “happenings” going on in our town presently.  They grieve over, even fear, the anger that spells out onto local people, businesses, entities.  And anger, while part of the grief process – and, if you haven’t noticed, that is where our community is in the process – cannot be allowed to run amok within Uvalde for long.  Yes, we agree that consequences have results, and there will be those who will be fired, charged with a crime, or reprimanded.  But that can be done calmly and succinctly.  Lord knows the multitude of misdeeds, misjudgments, mistakes are readily available for us all to see and read.  

  One cannot help but feel many of us are seeking grace during this time.  And not just any grace, but Great Grace.  In Acts 4: 32-37 (NIV) the early church worked together and there was “great grace.” (Some versions say, “God’s Grace.”) The new Christians sold what they had to help others with their needs (2nd case in point: all the wonderful gifts our community is receiving now from people we have never met!). One man, Joseph, was so giving he was renamed Barnabas or “Son of Encouragement.” I want to encourage like Barnabas!  And I want to receive Great Grace … I want its abundance and overflow, its healing and restoration, its selflessness and sharing, its warm hugs and loving embrace.  And most importantly, I want its divine forgiveness.   

  I want to be able to forgive all the wrongs.  And I want to be forgiven for all my wrongs.  The anger will abate one day, but like a fire, if we keep feeding it, it will never leave our community.  Yet grace … Great Grace … helps us get through it and emerge stronger.  Better.  The World is watching.  Reporters are scribbling in their notepads and rehearsing their opening verbiage on the Nightly News, “This just in from Uvalde” (3rd case in point: it’s You-Val-Dee).  You and I, together, have the power to direct their narrative because WE ARE the narrative.  We choose how we will respond to the tragedy before us.  Let’s, with everything we have inside us, respond with grace … Great Grace.

  Let’s grab all the good coming our way (and there is a LOT of GOOD) and make Uvalde a place … a shining city on a hill … for those who will face loss, disappointment, anguish, pain someday. Our children are the ones who matter the most to us. Let’s do it for their sakes … in the memory of those we lost and for the future of those we still have. 

  We are #UvaldeStrong. We have to be — our children are counting on us.

A Stone’s Throw by K. Irene Stone July 5, 2022
I told my coworker, Lucy, today while at work at El Progreso Memorial Library, that never in my lifetime
did I think I would live in a community that experienced a mass school shooting. Just wasn’t in my life’s
trajectory. Never in my wildest dreams of my future did I imagine this. Lucy agreed. It is surreal.
Today overall was surreal … which is the new normal in Uvalde. Pick up the Sunday “Leader News” and
you can read word for word the account of the surviving wounded teacher, Mr. Reyes. The horrid he
recounted – an eyewitness for the eleven children he lost – pays tribute to them and puts us in the
classroom with Evil in real time.
And as you are reading the unfolding of events on that fateful day, the hair rising up along your arms,
suddenly a news bulletin goes out that an active shooter is on the loose in town. Because that’s what
happened today … and we all dropped what we were doing (I threw the newspaper down) and ran to
bolt the doors. Certain ones were appointed as gatekeepers. Strategies were discussed about what to
do, where to escape or hide, how to fight (I am amazed at the number of people who are now carrying).
And then, just as sudden, the news that there is nothing to fear – a prank phone call from Oklahoma
(great, people are calling for fun to increase our anxiety) – our voices and bodies relax as we comment
that we would not have gone down without a fight (delayed bravado?). If there is one lesson we’ve
learned throughout this whole life changing experience, it is you cannot always depend on others to
come save you. We may be our last defense when Evil shows up on at our doorstep (read Mr. Reyes
account again – 77 minutes was an eternity to wait for help).
And, as our heartrates are calming back down, the activities of the day are ratcheting up. Books are still
arriving (up to 7,800 donated now); a group of teachers in Southington, Connecticut, sent us donations;
another teacher from California mailed us a complete activity project for children with markers, colored
pencils and drawing pads, etc.; hand-painted sympathy cards magically appear on my desk from Illinois,
and a card from a church in Houston arrives with a monetary gift because two Uvalde children attended
a church camp with them and spoke on how the Library helped them with fun programs. We even
received a clipping of the Washington Post’s article on the “Fierce Madres” for our Archives. The World
is sprawled out upon my desk in messy clusters of books, letters, checks, clippings, and notes of
condolences. And it is 44 days after May 24th.
Later, as visitors drop by (lots of visitors today – large groups) and the grand piano is being tuned – the
sharp dings of the keys reverberated among the bookshelves – representatives from the Victim’s
Resilience Center stop by to see the Library. Several of their volunteers were here last Friday, and they
papered the entry into our Rotunda with the many cards, letters, and artwork we have received from
across the country. We aptly named the display our “Tunnel of Love” – a visual reminder of the
overwhelming love Uvalde has experienced. The hand-painted cards I received today will be placed
there soon, a fitting addition to a collection that will grow and grow.
A man enters our office as I am about to call it a day and head home. He is from Maui, Hawaii, and he is
here to lead a healing ceremony at Robb Elementary School. I know it will be beautiful. We talk about
the ceremony, an ancient Hawaiian healing act, and how each movement releases an emotion. I cannot
attend tonight, but I promise him that as the sun sets, I will go outside on my hill at Stone Ridge, stand

by the windmill and dwell for a moment on his ceremony. He is gracious and appreciates my willingness
to be a part of the ceremony, even if miles away. For a week, he will be at the school, sunrise and
sunset, to preform and all are welcome to join him.
I climb in my car and go the roundabout way home on Hacienda Road to skip the busy downtown traffic.
It’s a peaceful path out of town that meanders between the railroad track on one side and the farmland
on the other – basically sandwiching me between a metal link to the outside world and the comfort of
home that the wheat fields signify. I pull up to the Highway 90 intersection, look to the “Welcome to
Uvalde” sign on my right, and, for the first time see the twenty-one crosses, evenly spaced in front of
the sign, that greet the World as it enters Uvalde. The beauty of the moment is again overcome by the
reality, and my drive becomes somber.
That’s why it is such a relief to make it home. No drama — just the cats, dog, and cows to greet me. I
grab a snack and sit to watch International House Hunters, my favorite TV escapism. The minutes tick
by, and the timer I set goes off. For a moment I am confused, then I remember — the sunset! I walk
outside, barefooted (please no scorpions), and snap a quick photo of the sunset.
I look west towards Uvalde where a man has travelled 3,553 miles to perform a ceremony of healing.
We are a strange land in comparison to his homeland of abundant rain, overgrown green jungles, cloud-
kissed mountains, and palm-shrouded beaches. But we are united in our desire to help others heal, and
in the process heal ourselves.
The sun starts to dip below the clouds at the horizon — it will be a mild sunset tonight, nothing dramatic
— and I close my eyes and remember the songs I have heard from scenes on Hawaii Five-O.
Interestingly, while I am not musically inclined, the melody comes to me, and I softly sway, humming,
and feel, for a moment, the joy of the movements.
Yes, I never thought I would live in a community that experienced a mass school shooting. And Uvalde, I
bet you didn’t either. It’s totally surreal. But here we are. And we are not alone on this journey … not
hardly.
#UvaldeStrong

“Hello, God

Are You out there?

Can You hear me?

Are You listenin’ anymore?”

  Day Fifteen has been a day of surprises.  One surprise is many of you still want me to continue to write about May 24, 2022, and the aftermath.  And the second, not so surprising, the grief I am feeling is getting heavier.  

  I had to go to a doctor’s appointment in Kerrville (2 hours northeast of Uvalde) this morning.  Then I was attending an Economic Development luncheon.  I’m all about learning new ways to help our communities, but as I got closer to Kerrville, well, I just could not bring myself to go.  I scheduled the event on my own, had even paid my ten bucks for the meal – but I couldn’t go.  I blew it off.  And for an A type personality, that’s a big thing.  But I had mentioned that as we grieve, we need to give ourselves grace.  So I did.

  I gave myself permission to skip the luncheon.  I had noticed as I drove up into the Hill Country and away from our drought-stricken community that grief had come to pay me a call.  And I listened to it.  So, instead, I stopped at Billy Gene’s Restaurant on the Guadalupe River and ate a lovely meal on their porch overlooking the river.  The deep green along the riverbank, abundance of singing birds in the trees, and the slow-moving river were healing.  I ate, watched, ate some more.  A deliberate awareness of my surroundings and the ache in my heart were central in my mind.

  Last night I had listened to Dr. Roy Guerrero’s speech to Congress.  A pediatrician who helped at the ER on May 24th, Dr. Guerrero is also a Robb Elementary alumnus. And his description of the carnage he encountered in the ER was playing over and over in my head.  Sadly, I think it is playing over and over in all our heads. The doctor saw two kids “…whose flesh had been so ripped apart, that the only clue as to their identities was the blood-spattered cartoon clothes still clinging to them.”

  Long pause here ….

  You know, just when I think I have Evil figured out, when I’ve drawn a square around it to define,
“This is how evil Evil is” and that it cannot venture outside the lines – then I am shocked to learn it is even worse than that.  I mean, Evil did not kill our innocents, it pulverized them until they were unrecognizable.  Who does that? What does that?  It wasn’t an execution shot and then the children were gone.  It was repeated atrocities. Carnage, massacre – those are the right word.  

  We should be righteously indignant that these boys and girls were slaughtered for NO REASON.  How can we allow such to happen to our most vulnerable population in what should be their safest place — their schools?  How can our law enforcement officers stand by and do nothing?  How could they stand by and not let the parents save their children?  If ever was a time to break with procedures, that was it.  Why didn’t someone, anyone, stop the EVIL before 77 minutes passed?  

  The questions play over in my head.  I can only imagine how the families feel.  The pain, anger, frustration … horror.  The verse came to my mind “Do not be afraid of those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul (Matthew 10:28).  It comforted me to know that as for the children, though their bodies were destroyed, their spirit, their soul was safe with the Lord.  In an instant. It is us left behind who now contend with the Evil.  

  So I sat by the serene Guadalupe River, feeling the grief get heavier, and understood why those farther away from the scene are grieving harder than us.  We Uvaldeans are too close to the situation in Uvalde to fully comprehend the picture.  We cannot see the forest for the trees.  Trying to survive, put one foot in front of the other, take one day at a time is our reaction.  But the rest of the country, they are seeing the horror in its complete gory portrait.  But as I put distance between me and Robb Elementary, the complete picture is emerging.  

  I paid for my meal, tried to shop, but just couldn’t do it.  A tiredness was settling on me.  I decided to go home, but I drove home the “long way” through Hunt and Utopia, following the winding Guadalupe and savoring its green coolness.  I was listening to my favorite playlist, the one with the inspirational Christian music. “Hello God” started playing. A Dolly Parton song, I played it often during the Pandemic.  Today it was so applicable to what I, what we are feeling.  I think we all want to say, “Hello God.  Are you out there?  Can you hear us?  Are You listening anymore?”

  But it was the ending of the song that spoke to me: 

“Hello, God

We really need You

We can’t make it without You

(Hello, God)

We beseech You

In the name of all that’s true

Hello, God

Please forgive us

For we know not what we do

Hello, God

Give us one more chance

To prove ourselves to You

Hello, God (Hello, God) Hello, God”

  As I sang along, I drove by a hidden church – it’s white cross on the front shining like a beacon through the brush.  It was an immediate comfort, a sign of hope as I echoed the lyrics, “Give us one more chance to prove ourselves to You.”

  One more chance.  One more chance to forgive us.  One more chance to save our children from the Evil that does not stay within the lines.  “We beseech You in the name of all that’s true.”  Please remember us, Lord.  Remember our community, remember our Los Angelitos and their families, remember us!  And with Your help, together, we will be #UvaldeStrong

  Today is the thirteenth day after “that day.”  I cannot help but think of the song from John Wayne’s “The Alamo,” at the end of the movie.  Aptly named “The Ballad of the Alamo,” it recounts the Thirteen Days of Glory.  You may ask, incredulously, why our sad thirteen days after May 24th should be considered days of glory? It’s not like we have been fighting a battle for thirteen days … or is it?

  I say it is!  We have been in a battle for our very lives! We have fought for our sanity, our self-control, our ability to face the light of day and dark of night.  And we have fought for our way of life here in Uvalde.  For the past thirteen days we have grasped for any lifeline we could find as everything we thought we knew was turned upside down … and still we have fought on.  We have fought for our past, present, and future.

  And battles, big and small, are fought in different ways. We have been patient with the myriad of people who have entered our town. We have stood firm when we wanted to throw up our arms, shake our heads, and walk away.  We have been courteous when we wanted to say, “Really? Now?” when we have been asked for one more picture, one more quote, one more tear.  We have “shot the breeze” like we did not have a care in the world to be polite when we ached to go into our home, lock the door, shut the curtains, and crawl in bed and cry.  

  We have talked to politicians, celebrities, newscasters, journalists, camera men, council members, school board members, school administrators, and law enforcement officers when all we really wanted to do was talk to the children and their teachers who we will never see on this earth again.

  And sometimes we lost it.  Sometimes we let the door slam behind us as we stomped out the house. Sometimes we clutched the little stuffed animal sitting next to the cross inscribed with our child/ grandchild/nephew/niece/cousin/brother/sister’s name on it and doubled over in anguish.  Sometimes we stood still with head bent – the weight of the world on our shoulders, pounding us into the ground.  And that is when someone, a stranger, or a friend, stood beside us, held our hand, and prayed for us.  They were our reinforcements — the Encouragers (and, God, please bless each one of them!) — and we could not fight on without them by our side.

  We know that no one fights a battle without an enemy.  And we have struggled with a real enemy – the Evil that entered Robb Elementary and took our nineteen precious children and two selfless teachers. NO ONE IN AUTHORITY STOPPED THIS EVIL until 77 minutes passed. We have struggled with this knowledge, but we will survive, and we will not forget. We are burying our children … still.  And we will demand an accounting of what took place when we are finished laying the last little one to rest.  We will NOT give up until all the questions are answered. 

  So, yes, we held it together for thirteen days after “that day” – our own Thirteen Days of Glory. On May 23rd did any of us foresee such a catastrophe in our community?  No.  Were we prepared? No.  And yet we have fought bravely on!   Why? Because WE ARE #UvaldeStrong.

“Grief Observed:  Sorrow · misery · sadness · anguish · pain · distress · agony · torment · affliction · suffering · heartache · heartbreak · broken-heartedness · heaviness of heart · woe · desolation · despondency · dejection · despair · angst · mortification · mourning · mournfulness · bereavement · lamentation · lament · remorse · regret · pining.”

So the prayers are prayed. The flowers are wilting. The hollow ground is filled and covered. And we are the ones left empty. What happens after? Where do we go from here? 

Oh, the school district will make their short- and long-range plans … there will be designs for a new school and safer old schools.  Our law enforcement will get more training … and counseling.  Half the town will need counseling at this rate.  But that is later.  That is “out there.”

But what about “in here,” in the quiet of your home? What happens next?

I remember waking up the morning after I buried my mother.  I was 34.  She had passed after a long battle with cancer at the young age of 54.  I immersed myself in grief.  Read every book I could grab on grief.  Attended conferences on grief.  Played songs about grief.  Wrote poems, filled journals, went on retreats on grief.  And this is what I learned.  

First, you will … whoops, you thought I was going to tell you how to grieve, didn’t you? Well, surprise!  I cannot tell you how to grieve because everyone grieves different.

Repeat after me:  EVERYONE GRIEVES DIFFERENT.

Some will be loud.  You will hear their weeping from afar, see them collapse and wail.  Let them.

Some will be quiet.  They will retreat to their room, hide behind the bathroom door, close themselves up in a closet to softly cry.  Let them.

Some will be busy bees who won’t stop doing and going because they fear they will fall apart if they slow down.  Let them.

Some will pretend it didn’t happen. Or they will be stoic for months and then grieve. Let them.

Some will be angry, angry at God, angry at families that have their loved one, angry to be angry.  Let them.

Some will cover every square inch of their house with the pictures, mementos, stuffed animals, toys, paper drawings.  They will leave the loved one’s room as a shrine.  Let them.

Some will take down every reminder of the lost one.  Clean their house from top to bottom and throw away mementos. Let them.

Some will go out every day at the exact same time and sit on a bench by the grave and weep.  Let them.

Some will not venture near that graveyard again.  Let them.

What I found is everyone grieves differently.  And, ironically, they will change their grief responses from one of the above to the total opposite. My dad tossed my mom’s pictures after she died – it hurt too much to see them – I retrieved the photos and kept them safe until the day he wanted them back.  

Which brings an important point: Be the voice of common sense and reason – don’t let the person grieving endanger themselves or others.  And that includes self-destructive behavior (drinking too much, taking illegal drugs, driving while intoxicated) – stop that quickly before they get a bigger problem.     

You can watch out for them (Did you eat today? Sleep?), pray for them, listen to them, let them cry on your shoulder or even yell at you.  It’s okay. You can handle it. They are grieving. And grief will ebb and flow.  Good days, bad days.  You will help them get through it, however long it takes.  Grief has no timetable. 

To the mourners:  Remember, there is no right way to grieve.  There are those who will tell you how to grieve though.  But it is your grief.  You own it.  Trying to grieve to satisfy someone else’s idea of how you should grieve is exhausting.  

And your energy will be low.  You will tire easily.  Be sure to get plenty of nutritional food, exercise, and sleep.  Grieving is hard work.  Note to Friends: Remember those who are in deep grief and take them out for a quiet meal, a short walk in the fresh air or watch the sunset together on the back porch.  Even more importantly, take them to church with you.

It is okay to doubt God. It is okay to be mad at God. He can handle it!  CS Lewis’ wrote in “A Grief Observed” about losing his wife and, later, regaining his faith in God that, “God doesn’t want something from us. He simply wants us.” God will be there with you even if you cannot see Him, feel Him, acknowledge Him.  You may leave Him as you struggle with grief, but He will never leave you!

Finally, take heart! We will get through this period of grief despite the distractions … the world, the press, the politicians, the exploiters, the naysayers, and the strangers in our midst.  However long it takes, we will make it because together WE ARE #UvaldeStrong and we have #uvaldelove for each other!

“My eyes are dry, my faith is old,

My heart is hard, my prayers are cold.

And I know how I ought to be:

Alive to You and dead to me.”

  So begins one of my favorite hymns.  We sing it often at church before the communion. There are times that I relate to the songwriter’s remorse that his faith is old.  I think after Covid we especially felt this way.  Our hearts were hard.  We were out of tears.  It was all about me — that was the attitude.  It took a tragedy of insurmountable horror to soften our hearts. To enable us to be share love again freely.  

  These past eight days have assuaged my hard heart – it’s tender now! I never realized how tender until I looked down into the face of a young girl, wearing a dainty pink dress.  She was the same age as our Los Angelitos from Robb, and I told her to help herself to a piece of pizza.  Yesterday, the Library was celebrating the beginning of our summer reading program, and, in the spirit of the moment, we decided to provide lunch for all our young readers and their parents.  Unfortunately, pizza box after pizza box only revealed pizza that grownups like:  vegetarian, chicken barbeque, tomato and basil, and the worse, Supreme with onions, olives, and bell peppers. The slices were laid out neatly on paper plates on a long table and nearly every child who came up to get a plate hesitated, looked up at their parental unit, then back down the table, and sighed.

  She was no different.  Big brown eyes glanced up at me, then swept down the line of paper plates which held, obviously, “ugh” grownup pizza, and then looked back up at me. I’m a hardened high school teacher in my past because I’ve relate better to older kids but after this past week, I want to love on these little ones. 

  “I bet you would like a pepperoni, wouldn’t you?” I said cheerfully, feeling my heart melt into my toes.    Her head nodded, shaking her long black hair down her back.  No way was I gonna disappoint her! 

  I looked at the stacks of unopened hot pizza boxes.  Surely one held a pepperoni.  I didn’t care how many I had to open; I was determined to find a pepperoni for this hungry princess!  It took several tries, and I reminded the surprisingly patient girl several times that she was getting a pepperoni. Boxes were strewn everywhere but I finally found the delectable cheese-covered pizza dotted with thin slices of meaty goodness.  The lunch of champions – or at least little girls dressed in pink.  

  She gave a shy happy grin when I handed her the plate ladened with its cheesy Italian treasure, carefully took it, then she went and sat down with her mom so they could eat together.

  It was the most beautiful sight I have ever seen.  

  And that wasn’t the only precious sight. Children of all ages were sitting with their parents and sharing a pizza and a laugh!  Heavens!  I hasn’t seen such joy in days. Many children in Uvalde have not smiled in since “that day.” Some of them are even afraid to leave their house. But at our little summer reading “festival,” a mother confided to our director, Mendell, that she witnessed her son smile and laugh for the first time after a week of numbness.  We watched as he ran from the candy-cotton machine to the face-painting lady to the balloon man, delight clearly written on his sweet face.  Other parents had a look of relief to see their children experienced carefree play and wonder.  

  So, yes … yes, my heart is tender. And as the funerals continue throughout this week, and the perfect angels are laid to rest in their custom-decorated coffins, my heart and yours are only going to get softer.  We are being washed anew daily with each story we hear, like the one concerning a young father searching for a videographer because he wanted to record his precious daughter’s funeral service so, one day, he could show it to his younger children when they are older.  

“What can be done to an old heart like mine?

Soften it up with oil and wine.

The oil is You, Your spirit of Love.

Please wash me anew in the wine of Your blood.”

  A new softened heart must be put to use.  Pray for the families.  Pray for the littlest ones who don’t know what is happening.  And then wrap your love around them and hug them tight.

We are #UvaldeStrong, yes. And we are #uvaldelove too. Now is the time to show it.