Marshall Ramsey

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.

The sky was gray, hiding the joyous sunrise.  Although warmer than it had been all week, there still was a chill in the air.  I’m not sure if it was from the wind or yesterday’s horrific news from Connecticut.  But the day seemed bleak. Almost hopeless.  I ran quietly along the water’s edge, watching the slate gray reservoir’s waves lap against the land.  Two geese flew over, oblivious to yesterday’s shootings.  With every footfall, I thought of the children. The bravery of the teachers and administrators.  I thought of the pain the parents must feel. I thought of my own three sons and my wife who is a teacher. Dear God. It could have been them.  What an incredibly evil act we witnessed yesterday.

The Mayans just might be right about the 21st.

Like most parents, my first reaction was to think about my children.  I nearly crushed the boys last night when they got home.  They got the kind of hug my oldest son got on 9/11.  It was one of those “realization that the world is an evil place that can really suck sometimes” kind of hugs.

I ran some more but could not shake the sadness.  Evil permeates a psyche like oils permeate a canvas. Mine was painted black.

Sending our kids to school is a huge act of faith, but we routinely do it everyday.  We’re blessed with being oblivious to the risks in the world. Yesterday, that bubble of security was once again popped by a vicious killer. A killer of children.  Who in the hell kills innocent children?

I’m at a loss for words.

But maybe words aren’t what are required.  I guess I could have spent yesterday afternoon preaching about why I thought yesterday happened.  I know a lot of folks on Facebook and Twitter did. I turned off my computer and spent time with my family instead.  Figured that was the best thing to do under the circumstances.

I finished my run and looked at my watch. I had been running just over two hours and had covered 14 miles. My heart, lungs and soul had gotten a good workout.  But I still don’t know how to explain yesterday.

I’m still at a loss for words. And will be for a long time.