It's so difficult to begin this.
I don't want to be writing it. Writing honestly demands of us clarity of thought, or at least, that we should face without flinching the truth and I find myself without the courage to face anything.
I went to the church today. It seemed the right thing to do. No, nothing seems the right thing to do, but it was something. Anything.
I prayed, because praying was the only way for me to speak honestly. I don't know if God hears our prayers, I really don't, but speaking without needing to be heard is the luxury of prayer and I wanted to speak. We can offer anything up to God, our pain, our joy, our fear. Even our hope. So I'm told.
I prayed for the dead. I prayed for the living. I prayed, most of all, for the children of this horror; for all those children for whom Mom or Dad didn't come home on Tuesday. I prayed for this country, your country, and for what I think this country means.
My daughter hugged me when I picked her up from pre-school today at lunchtime. My baby son smiled at me.
Those felt like prayers too.