Quiet, Steady Bravery

I come from a family of teachers. Grandmother, mother and me. Oscar also. His mother, his sister, and now he himself are all teachers, as was his father.
Many of the kids I taught in Japan were, then, of the same age as those we lost in Connecticut.
My mother, my grandmother and Oscar's mom all taught (or in Liz's case still teach) children in elementary school.
There is nothing large enough within the scope of language to encompass the loss the individuals in Connecticut (and indeed, those who have lost dear ones to violence anywhere) will go forward experiencing. Each day of their lives from this point onward will have been changed by the moment when a violent act splintered their family.
It takes a quiet, steady bravery that I think all those who make themselves responsible for others share.  It is a difficult thing, perhaps the most difficult, to know that no matter what they could do, it can never be enough to protect every innocent being against determined violence.
I find a great deal of comfort in knowing that the teachers who were there did the things that should be done to protect those within their care, and that, although the anger and fear run deep within those who watched and listened, even deeper runs compassion.
There are many groups forming among the knitters on Ravelry, and among groups of crafters everywhere focused on somehow expressing our compassion and support for those who have lost so very much. Those who make with their hands are in the position to create something for healing, not only for the recipients, but for ourselves. It is at times like these I bless the day I learned to make stitches. Like so many times before, it brings comfort, and a sense that something I do can perhaps create a tiny glimmer against the vast darkness.