These are seven things left in the wake of a child’s death by gun violence: the last text messages exchanged between siblings; a graduation cap; a library book that’s never been returned; tennis shoes with flashcards tucked inside them for a test that was never taken; encouraging notes for milestones that never came; a child’s First Communion veil worn just weeks before their death; and, finally, a Congressional Medal of Valor awarded to a child for dying while protecting his classmates.
Illustrations of these seven things are paired with the seven last words of Jesus Christ. Each is surrounded by lace patterns, inspired by shrouds and funeral palls, intimate and handmade objects that are an outpouring of communal love in times of grief. These patterns are an invitation to dwell in prayer.
In the twenty five years since the massacre at Columbine High School, there have been over 390 school shootings in the U.S., which have killed at least 203 and injured 441 students, educators, and others on K-12 campuses. Hundreds of thousands of young people have experienced gun violence at schools. Gun violence is now the leading cause of death for children and teens, disproportionately affecting communities of color.
These are overwhelming statistics to take in. And, yet, not facing the enormity of what is currently unfolding right now in the United States keeps us trapped in hopelessness. A hopelessness that fuels the endless cycle that now defines our civic life: school shooting, outrage, inaction, followed by another school shooting. This is a great spiritual crisis. What does it do to our souls to be passive spectators to such violence? What part of our humanity dies? In the face of the enormity of this crisis and these questions, I offer small things. Intimate glimpses into what’s been left behind in the wake of six different school shootings.
Collective rituals of mourning have all but disappeared. The pace of news means that no one event, no matter how gruesome or joyous, seems to hold our attention very long. But, the marriage between making and mourning began when Jesus’s body was taken down from the cross, tended to, and wrapped in a fine linen.