I was about 17 and had only had my driver’s license for a few weeks. It was dinnertime, but it must have been winter because it was dark outside. The road was poorly lit and twisty. I was driving the speed limit and singing along to the radio. I remember being excited to see my friends and happy that I now had the freedom to drive myself somewhere.

All of a sudden a blur went across the road. I tried to stop, but there was not time. I hit whatever it was. I came to an immediate stop. My heart was beating so fast in my chest and I immediately started shaking all over. I remember just sitting there. Helpless. What am I supposed to do?

I got out and walked behind my car. I saw it about 20 feet away and didn’t want to believe it. Even in the dark I could tell it was a cat. The tears flowed as I got closer and I silently prayed he was all right. He was not.

I sat next to its little tabby colored body and sobbed. I had never felt so unsure of what to do. I kept picturing a little girl standing at her doorway calling her kitty to come eat. She would go to bed that night wondering, “Where did that silly cat get off to?”

I imagined her walking to school the next day and finding her cat’s body on the side of the road.

“What kind of monster would kill my cat?” she would cry. “Why would they leave her out here? What is wrong with that person?”

But I didn’t know what to do. I just sat there and sobbed. Should I knock on people’s doors? Should I bury it?

In the end, I left the cat there. I wish I had left a note, but I didn’t. I was scared, sad and felt overwhelmed with what had happened.

That feeling is one that I have come to know all too well.

I have friends and family that have been dealing with some heavy stuff – loss of close family members, house flooded with sewage, cancer everywhere, surgery, comas, divorce, mental illness and sick children. I am surrounded with this and I feel the exact same way I did that night at 17.

Helpless.

Frozen.

I talk to myself a lot about what I could do.

I could just show up with coffee…but what if they don’t want company?

I could send a card…but what would I say?

I could offer to help…but what do I really have to offer?

Despite my self-doubt and fear, I do a lot of those things. Sometimes I do all of them. Sometimes I freeze and do nothing. Whatever the case, I never feel like it is enough.

What I really want to do is take away people’s pain. I want everyone to be happy. You know, sunshine and rainbows and kittens frolicking in a meadow of flowers.

However, pain is a part of life that just isn’t going away. How we react to and deal with pain says a lot about us.

This week I was forced to face some truth that I am not very proud of.

That helpless feeling provokes such strong urges in me to DO SOMETHING. And sometimes that “something” is pretty deplorable.

I judge.

Then I do something even worse.

I talk.

I find myself talking about the situation, often going in circles, with friends and family. It’s like if I keep talking maybe I could somehow break the code and solve their problems.

This is something I don’t want to do anymore.

In the past, if someone had confronted me and asked me about things I’d said, judgments I’d made, I might have ran away. Not literally, but I would distance myself from them. I’d feel shame and move on.

Not anymore.

This week I had to own up for something I said. I didn’t run away. I didn’t lie. I told the truth. I faced my words and judgments. I owned it.

It’s a baby step, I know, but it’s movement forward.

That family member forgave me and I am humbled more than I can express by that.

But I have a long ways to go.

Just this week at karate, I saw a dad with three young children. I have seen this dad many times before and I always leave being irritated and judging the crap out of him. He sits on his phone and yells, very loudly, at his children to just “sit there and be quiet.” I try to read my book, but inside I am lecturing him.

“Really? You expect your LITTLE kids at 5 and 3 years of age to just sit there and be quiet? You, a grown man, are not doing that. You are playing a game on your phone and voicing your annoyance at your children for all to hear. It is inappropriate for you to expect that of those kids you jerk. How about I yell at you to ‘be quiet’ and ‘sit still’ for an hour and see how happy you are? Shut up and bring something for them to do next time.”

I try to stop myself, but I just can’t. I don’t know this man or his situation. I could make all kinds of assumptions about him, and I do, but really I have no clue.

Someone posted this on Facebook this week:

I love this. I have done way too much assuming, judging, hurting and speaking.

A family member said something very poignant to me this week. Often we get judged on ONE moment of our life. One time when things are at their worst and we might be at our absolute lowest. It is unfair to judge. We are so much more than just the one moment and one choice we are in.

I am 36 years old and I have lived so many moments. I would not want anyone picking just one to judge my entire life upon, good or bad.

I don’t know how to stop judging, but I can be responsible for what I say. I need to learn to stop talking about people’s problems and making my sweeping judgments.

That includes judgments on myself.

I might still feel helpless and frozen at times. But that is OK.

So I take another humbling step forward.

He sat with his back against the rocky wall. His glasses were off and cast to the side and I could really see how puffy and swollen his eyes were. With no tissues around, I offered my scarf for his runny nose.

“Mommy,” he said as his eyes filled with tears. “I want to go home.”

His legs were pulled up and he took a small sip from the brown mug that someone had given us. I could see the embarrassment, fear and pain in his face.

I wanted to erase it all. I wanted to sweep him up in my arms and cradle him like a baby. I wanted to say that he could just go home and forget all about coming back tonight.

But I didn’t do any of that.

Wiping his eyes I kissed his not-so-little nose and gave him a hug. Then I sat next to him and just breathed. Through sniffles I could hear his breath calm and feel him relax next to me.

“I want to go see my friends,” he said after a few minutes. “I think they are worried about me.”

“Good idea,” I said.

He stood up, brushed off his pants and started the walk to class.

Parents. Teachers. Students. All wanted to talk to him. All wanted to relive the moment. All needed reassurance.

“I am OK,” he kept repeating with a smile on his face.

Once we made it to his classroom, all his friends greeted him with hugs and smiles. He made jokes. He smiled. He reassured everyone around him.

After changing out of his costume, I thought it best we go home and rest. We got sister out of class and headed home.

On the drive he told her the story of how he was onstage in front of the school when everything went purple and sparkly.

“Then it was like my eyes were closed, but they were open,” he explained. “I continued to say my lines. ‘Scamper, scatter’ and then thump. I fell back like a bowling pin.”

She laughed. He laughed.

Once home he stripped down to his underwear, grabbed his panda and sat in the big, comfy chair in the living room. He pulled his favorite blanket tightly around him like a cocoon.

“Can we watch Bill Cosby do that Noah joke?” he asked.

Sure. Since being cast as Noah in his class play he was in love with anything Noah’s Ark themed. I scrunched in next to him with the laptop and we listened.

Noah!
Who is that?
It’s the Lord, Noah.
Right! Where are ya? What you want? I’ve been good.
I want you to build an Ark.
Right! What’s an Ark?

We giggled together and I could feel him relax. The big performance was that night and I was honestly petrified for him.

It was decided that he passed out because he locked his knees, but I was worried it was nerves. I tried to push all my stuff aside and just be with him.

He was clearly sick now. His nose was running constantly and he felt a bit feverish. The afternoon ticked by. We ate some lunch, read a book and colored.

“What if it happens again?” he asked with anxiety and fear on his face. “Stupid legs.”

“You will be fine,” I said. “You have worked so hard. It won’t happen again.”

He got out a stick he had found at the river and practiced walking around like an old man with his knees bent.

I could see the battle raging inside his head. He wanted to call it quits. Give up. Let fear win. But at the same time he was excited and really wanted to do it.

“Can we watch the cowardly lion give his speech?” he asked. “You know, about courage?”

What makes the elephant charge his tusk, in the misty mist or the dusky dusk?
What makes the muskrat guard his musk?
Courage! What makes the sphinx the seventh wonder?
Courage! What makes the dawn come up like thunder?
Courage!

Daddy walked in and he told him the story of the afternoon. We ate a quick meal and headed back to school. His anxiety reached its peak about a block from school.

“I think I am sick,” he said between sniffles. He sounded so small and scared.

“Yep”

“But the show must go on, right?”

“Right.”

When we arrived, his friends were excited to see him.

“You OK?” I whispered.

“Yep,” he said. “I can do this.”

I walked to the theater and sat with my family. I couldn’t talk to anyone. My hands were shaking.

When the show began I thought I might throw-up. Please, please let him be OK.

And he was.

Despite the fever. Despite the runny nose. Despite the fear of passing out again. Despite the embarrassment of the day.

He did it.

And he was amazing.

Afterward we went out for ice cream.

“I’m sorry it’s over,” he said with a big smile. “Wish I could do it again.”

My heart soared.

He conquered his fear. He pushed through embarrassment and sickness. He proved to himself that he could do brave things.

I could not be more proud.

“Goodnight you moonlight ladies. Rockabye sweet baby James.”

Her sweet singing fills the room of kindergarteners as they rest around the big, red rug after playtime. She rubs lavender lotion on the feet of one of the helpers. I sit a few children over with my sweet daughters foot in my hand gently rubbing her ankle and inhaling the sweet fragrance. The teachers exchange a look across the circle and I know it must be almost time.

She stops singing and looks around at the children.

“Any minute now,” she says in a calm voice. “We will hear the call and it will be time.”

All the kids know what is coming. They have been preparing and are ready to spring into action.

“Lockdown.” “Lockdown.” “Lockdown.” Lockdown.”

The calm voice of Amy the secretary spills from the intercom box and fills the room.

The kids crawl over to the wall under the windows. Some hide under a little table. It happens quickly and in silence.

My daughter moves into a fetal position next to me with her head on my lap. Her little friend, just barely 5, grabs my arm tightly and curls into a tiny ball next to me. She really is so small I think. Without conscious thought, my arms reach out and pull them both tightly to me. Protectively.

One teacher locks both doors and then joins us along the wall. We sit in complete silence.

I knew this was coming too, but something happens that I did not expect.

My heart races and the reality of what this is hits me.

Hard.

Tears threaten to fall and I make myself calm down.

The kids smile at each other. It is a mix of the silent game and hide-and-seek.

A few minutes pass and we hear the front door rattle. Everyone stays still and silent.

A few more minutes pass and we hear the back door rattle. Everyone stays still and silent.

Another few minutes pass and we hear scratching at the window. Everyone stays still and silent.

Throughout the whole time I smile at the kids reassuringly, just as the teachers do. My hands stroke the girls clutched at my sides. I focus on calming my breath. Although they think it’s just a game, I know the reality and it makes my stomach clench uncomfortably.

“All clear.” “All clear.” “All clear.” “All clear.”

The kids smile and are visibly proud that nobody found us. We won the game.

“You can either be a vegetable cutter, rice cake maker or go play” the teacher says and we move forward.

As I make rice cakes with a few children, I realize just how attached I am to these little ones. These are not just the kids my daughter plays with at school. These are the precious, innocent, beautiful centers of their parents’ lives. In that instant I know that I would do anything to protect them. All of them.

I look over at the wonderful women who I trust my daughter with every day and I am hit with such a rush of love and gratitude. I know, without a shred of doubt, these beautiful teachers would do anything to protect my daughter. They, like all teachers, would give their life for these kids.

It is a sad reality that these drills are part of the world we live in. I will never understand how someone could feel so alone, desperate and be that deranged as to shoot kids? But it happens.

Fire drills. Earthquake drills. Lockdowns. “Duck and Cover” drills of decades past. All of these aim at one thing: making us feel like we are doing something.

But, really, we have no control.

No matter how hard we try, horrible things happen every day to nice people who plan ahead and do everything right.

It is not fair and I hate it.

All life is so fragile, yet we spend all our time moving through tasks and stressing about things that are so insignificant.

Of course we do. It’s impossible not to without becoming desperate and deranged ourselves.

So we have to surrender to something outside ourselves.

We have to cling to things like love, hope and prayer.

We have to.

I dump the hot rice into the bowl. My helpers add butter, flour and cheese and take turns mixing up the gooey goodness. We roll out the balls and add them to the pan. Then we eat the sticky pieces off our fingers and giggle.

We move forward.