Marshall Ramsey

It was probably three of the most emotional minutes of my life.  My middle son came out from behind the risers, wearing his red shirt and was joined by a beautiful female classmate.  They walked up to their microphones and began to sing.  Their voices sounded like angels (to me).  And at that moment, my heart stopped beating.

I can’t tell you how many different emotions I had. First, I guess, was pride. I was proud that my son had the courage to stand up in front of 500 people and perform.  I e-mailed my cousin Dave and said, “He’s got the gene.” That he could stand up in front of a crowd made me proud.  I was also impressed that he took this seriously and worked hard at it.  He was nervous. I could hear his voice crack a little bit. But he stood up there smiling with his chest out.

And then I felt sorrow.  I thought of the parents in Connecticut who would never had this kind of opportunity. It was hard not think of their sorrow during the whole program.

I listened closely in amazement as his and the little girl’s voice blended perfectly. He hit the notes (which were amazingly high) and had perfect pitch.  My eyes began to water as it occurred to me.  I realized what made me the most proud:

My son was doing something I would never be able to do.

Sure, if he got up and painted a painting or drew a cartoon, I’d be impressed.  But he sang. Beautifully.  I can’t carry a tune in a bucket.  At the age of 1o, my son surpassed his old man.

I also feel that way about my oldest son, too. I was looking at his 100 average in Algebra I yesterday.  He’s in 7th grade. I took it in 8th — and I didn’t have that kind of grade.

But as I was sitting in that theater, I realized what I truly want for my kids: I want them to be better than me.  And last night, I got to watch it happen.

I could not have been more proud.

The early morning darkness wrapped me snugly like a black straight-jacket. I looked at my watch; I had been running for nearly an hour. As my legs worked, my mind contemplated the world’s troubles. I started globally: Tension in the Middle East and war in Afghanistan.  I then moved closer to home: The fiscal cliff, the economy and the horrific school shooting in Connecticut.  And then I struggled with my own personal problems.

The gloom in my heart rivaled the gloom of the night.

That gloom (and the darkness surrounding me) robbed me of all my senses except hearing. I heard my labored breathing.  A dog barked in the distance.  A sudden breeze blew peacefully through the pines as if announcing something grand up ahead.

I crossed a bridge and looked to the left. There, on a dock on an inlet of the Ross Barnett Reservoir, was a brightly illuminated Christmas tree. It’s light, reflecting off the water, burned through the darkness like a torch valiantly fighting back the gloom.

And at that moment, I realized what Christmas means to me.  It’s the promise of hope. The innocence of a newborn child.  The gift of forgiveness. And promise of a new beginning.

As I stared at the tree, the sun began to rise. It’s rays battled the night’s gloom. I knew that light would defeat darkness.

I looked at the brightly lit Christmas tree one last time, said a prayer of thanks and ran home with peace in my heart.

My middle son and I many, many years ago.

Did you feel it this morning? That little touch of fear as your kids got on the bus? Last Friday morning, you didn’t think a thing about it, did you?  Nope, it was just the everyday chaos of getting your kids out the door. But the world changed Friday. OK, the world probably didn’t change, but our perception of it did. Our bubble of security was popped by a mentally ill young man who savagely killed beautiful, innocent children.  And a part of our innocence died with them.

Sure the odds are such that it is highly unlikely that we’d ever be affected by such a tragedy.  But we know a little about the odds here in Mississippi. Ask the parents of the students shot at Pearl High School.  Ask my friend who was shot by a man firing on people with an AK-47.  The odds are what they are.

I’m a firm believer that good things come from bad situations. But this one — well this one is much more difficult. The slaughter of young children is nearly impossible to find a silver lining for.  But maybe some good can come from such a horrific page in our history. As a nation, we’re going to have some grownup conversations about mass shootings.  What are the roots of these type of killings?  Is our mental health system failing the very people it needs to be helping?  And I’d imagine we will discuss a topic that is almost sacred in the South: Guns.

It won’t be easy.  But we’ll do it. Right now, though, we’ll mourn as little bodies are lowered into the grown much too soon.

I saw my middle son as I walked out the door.  I was at a loss for words so I just looked at his blue eyes, blonde hair and his smile.  My brain knows he will have a good, safe day today. But my heart worries just a bit.

And I won’t take for granted when I see his face again.