Article and picture submitted by K. Irene Stone

12-23–24

Written December 10, 2017, by K. Irene Stone, the first Christmas after I moved
back to Uvalde County.

Gray December Morning Musing: The door slammed behind me as I entered the long
utility hall and walked into the warm kitchen. An enthusiastic “Renee!” greeted me as
Grandma got up from her recliner in the living room. She came over, gave me a hug,
and asked if I wanted some coffee.

Sure, I said, and pulled out a chair to sit at the small kitchen table. She busied herself
getting down the delicate-flowered China cups out of the top cabinet — no coffee mugs
for the Reagans — and poured us both a cup. I’m not much of a coffee drinker but
drinking coffee from a China cup made me feel elegant, cultured. As I took the first sip I
could hear Pop in the living room, cheering on the Spurs.

Grandma sat down by me and before she could lift the cup to her lips, the door
slammed again. We looked up expectantly, and mom walked into the kitchen. Her
yellow sweatshirt was faded and covered with dirt, but she was grinning from ear to ear.
Look what I found, she said, holding out a garden-gloved hand. There, in her covered
palm was a perfect arrowhead, still crusty with dirt. Grandma immediately jumped up,
and, without asking, retrieved another China cup and poured mom a cup of coffee while
Mom carefully placed the arrowhead in my hand. I glanced down at it and enviously
asked, where did you find it? By the cement tank — dug it up, she replied, patting the
rusty spade in the tool belt on her waist. She took the steaming cup from Grandma.
Whew, its cold out there she said as she and Grandma sat down.

I reached over and opened the cookie drawer and pulled out a few stale Oreo cookie
from the opened package. Grandma had the best stale Oreo cookies. I handed Mom
one as the door slammed. We looked over as Daddy walked in, his brown jacket flecked
with deer hair. Got a nice eight-point buck, he grinned, pushing his cowboy hat back.
Bob and WC are dressing it now. Grandma got up, retrieved another cup, filled it up,
and handed him a cup of coffee. He blew on it to cool it. Sure is getting nippy out there,
he commented as he leaned against the kitchen wall, cup in hand.

Did you see the tree? Grandma asked all of us. Your Christmas tree? I asked back. Yes,
only ten days to Christmas, but I got it up in the parlor, she said proudly. Mom and I
scooted our chairs back and followed her into the living room, Daddy trailing behind.
As I passed by Pop, he sat up in his recliner, the footrest making a loud sound. His farm
and cattleman magazines leaned haphazardly on the side table. A couple fell off when I
leaned over and kissed him. A big man, 6′ 5″, he was a softie around his grandkids. I
stood back, forgetting about the TV and the Spurs game. He waved me aside. Can’t see
through muddy water, he said. I laughed, got of his way, and turned as Grandma
motioned me into the parlor with Mom and Daddy.

The back door slammed again, and Darrell walked into the living room, pulling off his
diesel-soiled jacket. It’s cold out there, he said. Daylight’s getting dimmer. Had to come
in with all you sissies. Ha! I said, hugging his neck, the strong scent of diesel
surrounding me, and maybe just a hint of cattle. Howdy, cuz, he replied, a big grin on
his face, pulling me closer. I laughed and tightened my hug.

Come in and see Grandma’s tree, I told him, stepping back. He chuckled, I bet its red.
Isn’t it always, I replied as we walked into the parlor together. There before us was a
small artificial tree covered in red lights and ornaments. Grandma’s signature Christmas
tree.

We all gathered around the little tree, and I reached over to cup one of the red bulbs. As
it glowed in my hand, I could feel its red glow reach up into my heart, enveloping it with
its warmth. I closed my eyes, wishing this moment would never fade, feeling the
presence of all whom I held dear gathered around me. There was no cold. No darkness.
Only warmth and happiness. Slowly, hesitantly, I opened by eyes, the bulb still cupped
in my hand … knowing I would be the only one left standing there.

Christmas memories. During this time of year, I pray they never lose their glow for you
and me, even when our dear loved ones are long gone and live only in our hearts.

“The best of all gifts around any Christmas tree: the presence of a happy family all
wrapped up in each other” – Burton Hills

 Picture Credit: K. Irene Stone

A year is not long enough …

  There will never be enough tears …

  But there is plenty of fear …

  Pick one of the above and run with it because there are plenty more platitudes where those came from here in Uvalde.   

  Try as I might to ignore the one-year anniversary, I find myself struggling to breathe under the weight of the very air here in Uvalde.  The humidity this week is at odds to the day we will remember tomorrow, May 24, 2022. Then it was hot and dry.  Dust filled the air.  Today after all the recent rains, we find ourselves overwhelmed with the moisture-rich air, the abundance of green … and the heaviness of our empty arms and aching hearts. 

  I dreaded the anniversary day so much that I played a trick in my mind as I rested last night.  A “what if” kind of game.  “What if,” I mused to myself, “we woke on the 24th to find time had reset?  What if It never happened.  What if, miracle of miracles, we got a do-over?”  I laid there and imagined what the twelve months, 52 weeks, and 365 days would be like if we could roll them back, you know, like the clock in Benjamin Buttons.   

  No press conference announcing the casualties to a stunned community,

  No 77 minutes of eternity of the law enforcement inaction,

  No ignoring 911 calls from the children, 

  No ”goodnight” greeting as the shooter enters Class 111.

  Instead there’s a loud click as the outside door locks when slammed closed by a teacher,

  A chain link perimeter fence remains unclimbable,

  A brown truck being driven past the school continues own the highway,

  An altercation with a grandmother never escalates,

  And the happy students go home after an awards ceremony.

  The seconds roll back one by one by one by one until 21 hearts are whole and beating.

  And then the reset button is pushed.  

  May 24th resumes like any other last day of school.  The children collect their backpacks when the final bell rings, board their buses or open the door to their parent’s car to head home.  Laughter rings out as a slender girl plays with her puppies, another greets her cat.  A young boy pitches a baseball, while one kicks his soccer ball.  The golden May sunlight glints off smiling dirty faces.  Tired families gather hungrily around the table for dinner.  Bedtime prayers are said as tired little ones clutch their favorite stuffed animals and close their eyes.

  Days turn into weeks. No makeshift memorials encircle the downtown plaza.  Buildings facades don’t reflect murals of nineteen children and two mothers.  A school will not be slated for demolition.  Political activism is reserved for the politicians, not mourning parents marching with hurting hearts in their hands and fire in their eyes.

  I know I am not alone in this dream.  Everyone in Uvalde has dreamt this dream.  Prayed for this dream.  But it is not our reality, nor will it be our town’s reality tomorrow.  Tomorrow will dawn, and we will be sick to our stomachs knowing there is no reset button big enough to change this day.  We will gather with the families and hug them and cry with them and know this is the day.  This is the day that evil came to Uvalde. 

  And so, one year later, we stand together to say the first of many anniversary goodbyes to 21 beautiful souls, our precious Los Anglelitos de Robb, as the world watches.  After 365 days, we are still #UvaldeStrong.

  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

  King 20:5 “…This is what the LORD, the God of your father David, says: I have heard your prayer and seen your tears; I will heal you.”

  The hot wind whirled into town, spinning dust up into the dry heavens above Uvalde.  No one heard the door slam on the black SUV, but a tall figure appeared next to it when the dust settled.  He stood silently, taking in the scene.  

  The aftermath was over, the bodies of the littlest ones were accounted for, and the weeping began, the sound rising past the dust hovering above.  He took off his sunshades and shielded his eyes from the sun as he looked upon the tragic scene.

  Mothers cried loudly as they leaned on the shoulders of sobbing fathers.  A young Anglo woman bowed, shedding silent tears as she blindly reached up to grasp the hand of an older Hispanic woman who clutched a rosary.  A bone-tired middle-aged workman repeated the Lord’s prayer over and over as he gently stroked the top of his son’s head. A couple clasped each other, their embrace muffling their cries of anguish as stoic officials counted the numbers again one by one.  The sorrow was thick, suffocating, smothering.  It was death.

  He smiled.

  But then THEY showed up.  Other people from every state, from all around the globe, came to Uvalde.  They came to hug the necks of the grieving; they came to cry with the grandparents, uncles, and aunts; they came to hold the hands of the injured. Yes, they came to say prayers and bring food and cards and many, many flowers.  They made crosses and necklaces.  They sang sad songs, painted murals, performed heart-lifting ceremonies, and wrote poems of hope.  They offered grace and comfort. They gave donations … and, even more importantly, they gave love. Lots and lots of love. And the people of Uvalde began to heal.

  His smile disappeared.  It was not meant to happen this way.  Evil had been allowed to run loose, and it must reap its bushels of disillusionment, hopelessness, and unforgiveness.  He cursed out loud, glaring up into the heavens.

  But nothing terrible happened.  Instead, the heavens opened up, thunder boomed, and the rain fell.  He watched amazed as the people began to sing songs of joy as their tears mingled with the raindrops — their Los Angelitos had made it home.  They were home!

  Disgusted, he turned and kicked at the dust under his feet, causing it to spin again.  Spin higher and higher until it blocked the sun.  Then he laughed to himself as he counted upon his fingers.

  What was that?  Accusations? Hypocrisy? Insubordination? Concealment of truth? Lack of empathy? No trust? No faith? One by one, he counted, and the pillars that the community leaned upon began to shake from the strain.  The air became thick with cursing and threats.  Fingers were pointed at authorities, leaders, friends, and neighbors.  Old wounds reopened.  Tears shed could not be stopped, and they gave no comfort … no relief.  The songs were forgotten as the flowers began to rot in the heat. 

  And THEY, the others, were forced to step back and watch the turmoil grow – helpless to stop the dissension.  

  And he smiled. Broadly. Yes. Yes, now his job was done. 

  He pushed his sunshades back upon his face. The black SUV started up, drowning out all sound.  He quickly climbed in as the tires began to spin out and sling gravel like tiny heart-piercing arrows.  He couldn’t resist rolling down the window and laughing as he drove off. One last sling.

  The people looked about helplessly as the darkness and dust rolled in, strangling the last ray of sun, and causing confusion and pain in their hearts.  Fear gripped them.  Anger choked them. They broke into little groups, separate and apart, and forgot to stand together.

  But then, in the quiet that remained after the dust settled, a little brown hand reached out to clasp a little white hand which clasped a little black hand which clasped a little yellow hand which clasped a little red hand.  And, together the littlest ones held onto each other as they formed a circle around the people and began to sing.

  “…red and yellow, black, brown, and white, they are precious in His sight, Jesus loves all the children of the world.”  They sang it over and over as they danced around the people, reminding them of what was important.  Reminding them that we are in this together.  Reminding them that we do not grieve alone. Reminding them that God is still with us.

And then the sun came out … again.

#uvaldestrong is #uvaldetogether

  I see him sitting there as evening fades into darkness.  The little woodpecker perched on my patio chair.  I placed him there thirty minutes ago after I saved him from my two cats.  He’s clearly in shock, his feathers ruffling in the wind of the swiftly passing clouds.  I peek out every few minutes to check on him.  

  Still sitting.  

  After I found him, I ran across the lifeless body of his sibling.  He did not survive, and now his crumpled feathered self lies undisturbed in the dry dust of my yard.  I can still see him there, on the ground near the heat withered grass, and it makes my heart hurt. I need to find a place to lay him to rest, far from the cats. 

  Mom and Dad are flittering here and there.  It’s a hard place to raise babies.  They had built a nest in the light fixture on my front porch.  There are no trees here on the hill.  Bad place for baby birds to learn to fly. 

  When I let the two cats out today, I looked about for any babies.  Assumed they had flown off … finally.  All week I have been bringing the cats frantically in whenever a youngster begins his or her maiden flight.  One after the other tries it wings.  I guess this is the last one.

Still sitting.

  This is the way it is in when you live in the country.  Live or die, there is rarely mercy here.  It is the nature of birds to fly.  It is the nature of cats to chase birds. A bad combination — but natural.  (But then, even the cats have those lurking in the brush ready to pounce on them.)

  He’s still there. Eyes closed.

  I hope his mom and dad will coax him off the chair and back into their warm nest in the light fixture.  They usually round the youngsters up every evening.  Taking care of their young … it’s what parents do.  I know they see the littlest one unmoving on the ground as the sky fades to pink, then the blue of night.

  Still sitting. But he seems calmer.

  I’ve must have washed my hands four or five times after placing him on the back of the chair.  They still feel dirty … more guilt than actual dirt. I wished I’d tried harder to protect him.  To give him a better chance.  To spare him this indignity of a violent attack upon his delicate, helpless self.  I find comfort in his courage — he fought to escape the best he could.  He’s a fighter, that one, I tell myself.

  I glance out the window again at the chair.  

  He’s gone.

I guess his parents finally lured him up into safety. I look about quickly to make sure he’s really gone, and give a sigh of relief. I wipe the hair out of my eyes.  Or is it tears?

I’m glad he’s safe now.  Tomorrow, I will be more careful, I promise him. Tomorrow.

Thirty-four days after, and my heart has not healed … we have not healed.  I find every life precious now.  Even the littlest woodpecker.

#UvaldeStrong #Keepfightingnevergiveup