I am thankful that when I hear/read the news of another act of gun violence in our country the image that comes to mind is not one of lifeless innocent victims and bloodshed. Instead, my mind most often goes to the dining room of my childhood home where one wall is covered by a significantly large piece of furniture. It’s smooth, dark wood sides and glistening plate glass doors stand in complete contrast to the killing machines that are locked inside.
The family gun case houses a vast array of life-ending artillery. Shotguns. Single and Double-Barrel. Pistols. Winchesters. Rifles. And two that were given to me as gifts in my younger years… a “you’re going to shoot your eye out” BB gun and my 22 caliber, semi-automatic rifle.
Growing up, I never thought too much about how odd it was to walk past this display each and every time that I entered the house. I also never really considered what my friends thought as they too walked past this array of weaponry, proudly displayed as if they were our family’s prize possessions. It was a part of who we were…a family that owned guns, kept them locked in a cabinet in our dining room. There’s nothing weird about that… is there?
I guess the purpose of having them there may have been that if there ever was an emergency and we were in need of getting to the guns, simply breaking the glass and grabbing one of the many (as long as you knew which ones were sitting there fully loaded) would put us in an advantageous position against our foe.
In reality, the only time I ever witnessed these guns out of the case was when we would take a couple out to the farm and shoot tin cans off of the fence-line. Oh, well there were those times when we would also unload the entire cabinet, putting the guns in their soft-sided cases and hiding them in the house before leaving for a vacation. The huge empty case wouldn’t stand as a hint to an intruder that they may simply be stashed somewhere else… (look under the beds)
I remember obtaining my firearm owner identification card… as if it was nothing special. Of course I own a gun… a 22 caliber semi-automatic rifle, to be specific… you don’t?
But I only knew the purpose of that gun in relation to tin cans and fences. I never once considered that it could be used to inflict harm on another human being. I never once thought to fill the chamber with its shiny bullets and then to aim it in the direction of anything that lives or breathes.
I’m not a hunter… I guess I gave that away. But above that… I’m not someone who is comfortable even having the guns in my past. I have no use for them. I have no desire to be connected to them. And when seeing how others are using guns to kill innocent people… I want to erase the memory of every holding that rifle in my hands.
Reading about a shooting that took place today at a school in Oregon brings these memories to the surface. I remember what it felt like to unlock the gun cabinet. I remember the smell of finely-polished wood and carefully-cleaned steel that burst forth from the case as the doors were opened. I remember the weight of the ammo boxes in my hand, the gentle clicking of the chamber as it took in each of the bullets, the flat butt of the gun against my shoulder, the small sight in line with my eye and the target… I can and do remember it all each and every time I hear of a senseless shooting.
I fight hard to keep my mind focused on it, not allowing the media to de-sensitize me… oh, it’s “another” school shooting. It’s “another” mass shooting. It’s a shooting where one student died… oh, and the shooter (because apparently his/her death is not one that we are not to mourn).
I do not know the minds of those who unlock their own gun cabinets, load the chambers and line up the sight with the life-sustaining heart of another human being.
I do not know the life they have lived, the influences they have had, the dreams or nightmares that may coax them to cause harm.
I do not know the rage, the fear, the depression, the rejection, the abuse, the neglect, the injustice, the oppression… that they have endured.
Or maybe I do…
But it has not led me to go back to those memories of holding that gun, of feeling the power that existed in my hands at that moment, and it sure as hell has not led me to consider hurting or killing someone because of it.
I also do not know what good it is to write these thoughts today. Perhaps it is simply to keep me in the moment, to provide time to pray for those involved (the victims, the families and yes, the shooters). Perhaps I write so that someone will read and spend the same time in prayer with me.
Perhaps I write because I know that I must do something… no matter how apparently insignificant… to bring an end to the violence. I join my voice with others who have lifted the same prayers, written with the same anger and helplessness. I share my words hoping that others will share theirs… and that together we can make a difference… together we can bring an end to the senselessness that plagues our neighborhoods, our schools, our churches, our nation… our world.
What is the answer? How will we make our world safer? How will we put an end to these tragedies?
Honestly, I don’t know what the answer is…but I know what it is not.
Violence is not the answer…
Silence is not the answer…
Desensitization is not the answer…
No matter how deep the wounds are, no matter how much rage, fear, depression, rejection, abuse, neglect we have bottled up… none of these are the answer.
Maybe you know the answer…and have yet to speak the words.
Maybe you know the answer…and feel insignificant within the enormity of the situation.
Maybe you know the answer…and the right person has yet to hear it from you.
Share it. Speak it. Write it. Pray it. Spread it far and wide… so that together we can make a difference…together we can make a change…together we can save lives.
Together, we can work to bring about an existence where I don’t have to go back to that childhood dining room again.
