This felt important to share.

Today I saw the news of another school shooting, at a Catholic school. My heart, oh my heart, as I checked the location to see if it was where my niece and nephew attend. It wasn’t, and I just sat at my desk and wept, deeply grieved and a little relieved, then guilty tears for relief. My girls noticed and asked what was wrong, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell them the truth. They’re still so pure. All I said was, “something I read made me sad.” And it did, more than sad. It gutted me.

Because the truth is, I don’t know how much to tell them. How do you explain to a child that the world can be so violent and cruel? That kids their age go to school and don’t come home? I want to protect their innocence for as long as I can, but I also feel this pull to be honest, to not hide the brokenness of the world they’re growing up in. It’s an impossible balance, and I never feel like I get it right.

Every time headlines like these appear, it feels like collective trauma stacked on top of itself. I’ve seen too many over the years. I remember hearing about Columbine when I was eight years old. I have an eight year old. My heart breaks for the families living through the unthinkable, and my fear rises for the ones I love. My mom is a teacher. She shows up to her classroom every day with love and dedication, and I worry about her safety more than I can admit out loud. I know she would sacrifice herself for her students, but should she be asked to?

And still, the ordinary tasks don’t pause. Life keeps going. There are dishes in the sink, laundry piles that need folding, math that needs to be taught. Some days it feels absurd. How can I stand at the counter rinsing plates when the world feels like it’s unraveling? How can I keep moving through such small routines when my heart is carrying such heavy grief?

This doesn’t mean my days are spent dwelling on fear or obsessing over “what ifs.” Quite the opposite: I live a wholly joy-filled life. My home is full of laughter, dance parties in the kitchen, messy art projects, whispered bedtime prayers. There is light and goodness here, and I cling to it with gratitude. But part of living honestly as a mom, a woman, a person in 2025 means acknowledging the world we’re raising our kids in. Ignoring the brokenness won’t make it go away. Pretending it doesn’t exist won’t help anyone.

Today, in the middle of all of it, I put on the song Ancient of Days as I made a frozen pizza for lunch. The words washed over me like a breeze:

Though the nations rage, kingdoms rise and fall
There is still one King reigning over all
So I will not fear, for this truth remains
That my God is the Ancient of Days.

And I stood there in my kitchen, crying, but also remembering. Remembering that our only hope is Jesus. Remembering that no matter how much evil we see in this world, no matter how chaotic it feels, He has not changed. He is sovereign, He is good, and He is still on the throne. But on days like today, that truth can feel a little far away.

I don’t have answers for my daughters. I don’t know how to carry all this sorrow. But I do know that when my strength gives out, His never does. When the news overwhelms me, He reminds me that the story isn’t over. One day He will make all things new. One day He will wipe away every tear.

Until then, I keep going. I wash the dishes. I fold the laundry. I hold my daughters close. I pray for my mom. I cry at my desk, I vote responsibly and have the hard conversations with my friends about what we can do here and now. Most of all, I lean hard on the peace that only Christ can give: the peace that doesn’t make sense but somehow holds me together anyway.