What Can I Possibly Say?

The impossible task of explaining gun violence against children.

Aug 29, 2025

My husband cleared his throat and glanced at me from the opposite end of the dinner table, his eyes betraying the sadness just below the surface.

“We want to talk to you kids about something serious.”

The forks clanged on plates. A few sets of eyes rolled.

“Okay, here we go, Mom and Dad! We’ll pick up our freezie wrappers.”

“No,” I said. “There was something very sad that happened today.”

“Oh yeah, we heard something happened at a school. Our friend had to have indoor recess today.”

Indoor recess—because just a neighborhood or two away from our house, at Annunciation—a school and church community where we have close friends and several acquaintances—a gunman had shot into all-school mass and had killed two children, injuring others.

These were the conversations I never want to have with my kids. But I do, despite the constant wrestling match between offering them space to process hard truths in our safe family bubble and wanting to keep them sheltered from the cruel realities of the world.

Or, in this case, the neighborhood.

Imagine.

I first heard through texts from friends before any broadcast. Minneapolis may be a big city, but it’s made of small neighborhoods, and news travels fast. At first, information trickled out in drips, uncertainty fueling fear.

I was at work, trying to be present for my clients sitting across from me, holding their own pain. But my mind kept wandering, desperate to check my phone between sessions, hoping each precious pearl of information would soothe. Instead, I just felt sick.

When my mom called to check in, I burst into tears—then quickly wiped them away before opening my office door to greet someone else, to appear sturdy while inside I was anything but.

Could you ever imagine it would happen there?

Yes. And I can’t stop imagining.

I imagine sitting in church, whispering to my kids not to squirm, reminding them to sit in peace and think about the love they can give the world.

And then—stained glass shattering.

Rainbows mixing with red.

Children down on the ground, their small bodies crouched under the pews.

The kaleidoscope of beauty and horror colliding in a series of unbearable moments.

I imagine myself getting coffee across the street while my husband and children are inside for all-school Mass, giddy about the first week back and the return of my free time.

I imagine hearing gunshots and running toward the deafening sound, desperate to feel their warm bodies, proof of life against my own.

I imagine searching the sea of familiar faces.

Scanning to land on the most familiar of all—the faces I have traced a million times with my finger, every freckle a dot on a map of bonded love.

I imagine seeing those faces, and others I know, streaked with blood, the bright light of life now dimmed.

Part of me thinks I have to imagine it—to prepare for the inevitable time it happens to me.

Or to you.

Or to all of us.

The Ripples

The shooting was the earthquake. The trauma that follows is the tsunami.

Entire communities are forever marked: children, parents, teachers, friends—all carrying something they didn’t choose. And those of us nearby? We will pack lunches and zip backpacks and straighten the first-day outfit, trying to remind them it’s safe, trying to believe it ourselves.

I hold back tears at bedtime as I curl around my almost-first grader, feeling the steady thrum of her heartbeat and the warmth of her small body.

Would she know to stay down on the ground, under the pew?

I think about the parents who came home with one less heartbeat in their house. The chicken defrosting in the fridge now an artifact from a life Before—the cruel reminder of how fragile our Holy normal really is.

The Noise

When I turned to social media, the noise was deafening: reactions, arguments, hot takes.

What I long for, even now, is not more noise, but presence.

The tightest hugs for friends directly impacted.

A pause deep enough to really see the humanity that was lost.

A willingness to sit with the truth: that in this country, we continue to choose guns over children.

To pass the buck on mental health while skating by on lip service and supplements.

My heart breaks at the impossible task of discussing this at dinner.

The Silence

That night my husband and I went for a walk—not filled with our usual chatter about calendars and kid stories, but silence.

A hand squeeze here and there.

The sky was drenched in golden light, clouds puffed like cotton candy.

The distance between the exquisite beauty and the twisted darkness of the day was vast, a canyon holding the human experience.

In the distance, I heard the rhythmic beats of a drum circle.

I wondered if it was others in grief—unsure what to do, but drawn outside under a sky bigger than all of us.

Returning to something primal, something that reminds us we are still here when others are not.

Essays about hope and resilience might follow.

But right now, my heart feels broken, and I want to give grace to this moment of pain.

Psychological First Aid

In the immediate aftermath of a crisis, the brain often struggles to process what just happened. Psychological First Aid (PFA) is about meeting people where they are and offering steadying steps that help the nervous system calm. Think simple: protect people from further harm, share clear and accurate information, meet basic needs, and help others slow down their breathing or find small grounding anchors in the present moment. These small steps reduce chaos and begin to restore a sense of safety.

Call to Action:

Whether you are experiencing the crisis directly or supporting someone who is, the next step is to keep weaving in steadiness. Stick to familiar routines, check in with trusted people, and use grounding practices like slow breathing or short walks. Over time, these simple actions build resilience — and remind us that healing happens in connection, not isolation.

And call your representatives. Donate to the victims. Donate to organizations that want meaningful change.

Refuse to accept that this is acceptable.