Let the Connecticut Children Rest in Peace

When my younger daughter was in grade four, a little girl in her class, who sometimes called for her on the way to school, died violently.

On Saturday, my daughter went to her birthday party and had a wonderful time.

The following week, the father took the mother and his daughter for a late evening drive. It was their last drive. He intentionally drove up an exit ramp of a multilane Toronto highway, the wrong way and steered the car under an oncoming transport truck.

All were killed instantly.

The father had previous mental health issues.

The next day the school informed the parents of the children, in Desiree's class of the tragedy. Of course the members of the community already knew the horrid news.

My daughter's first reaction was surprising. "Why didn't her daddy let her have ice in her pop ?" Apparently, he was concerned about ice and teeth. "Why was he worried about her teeth if he was going to do that ?"

When the children arrived at school, they were met by their teacher and a team of grief counsellors. For several days the children drew pictures, went for walks in the park, listened  to stories and expressed their ideas and emotions in small groups. Too be frank, it was just too much.

These were not the normal school days the children wanted.

About day four, my sunny dispositioned little girl, came home for lunch, furious. That morning the class had been read Desiree's personal classroom journal. The children had been assured, when they started these journals, they were for their eyes only. "What colour is maroon anyway?" That was her favourite colour. My daughter was offended, as only a young child can be righteously offended. The privacy of her friend was being invaded.

"Why can't they just leave Desiree alone to be dead?"

A death of a child who was tragically killed will always remain a part of the children's  childhood memories. She was a sweet little girl.

The class went on to plan a little ceremony and plant a lilac tree in Desiree's memory. That was as it should be.

My daughter knew instinctively as a child, there was a time to let Desiree rest in peace.

My wish for the twenty children in Connecticut, who were brutally slaughtered in their classroom, and their friends and family, is that they will soon be given a chance to be at peace. They have no need for more flowers, balloons and stuffed animals.

I'll plant a tree, but the more fitting tribute will be when the laws of their country are changed to make future massacres of this kind, less possible.

Rest in peace.

North Mountain Chorus Sings 2012

North Mountain Chorus sings, and I find myself singing with them. I have never fancied myself a singer. The only place I can imagine myself musically inclined is rocking wee babies to sleep, with lullabies.

And here I find myself dressed in black, like those around me, with unfamiliar bling around my neck, trilling away with the best of them.

That is the point. The less than expert trillers can trill, when they find themselves surrounded by the voices of fine trillers. 

There we were, standing on risers at the front of the United Church, down the mountain, in the nearby town. We were making a joyful noise that was welcomed not only in ourselves, but by the many listeners as well.

I have always thought that perfection sucks, or as my late mother would prefer me to say, perfection isn't everything. There is no question near perfection is sometimes required; however, the hands of a potter or the hands of a weaver create objects touched by hearts, that no machine manufacturing the physically perfect object can ever produce. 

The joy of singing enters songs. The strong singers clear a path for the less strong singers to move along. The voices are joined together in a hall up the mountain, where we practise each week. Here freedom is given each voice a chance to sing well enough to release joy into the songs, that is released into a world badly in need of joy.