By Michelle Koch 
I live 12 miles from the latest mass shooting.
Twelve miles from Annunciation Catholic School in Minneapolis.
An angry person armed with high-power guns shot through stained glass windows while elementary students were attending mass. Two children, an 8- and 10-year-old, will not return home—ever. Seventeen others, fourteen of those being children, were also shot.
So many lives torn apart on a picture-perfect August day.
Twelve miles. Twenty minutes.
It feels like my neighborhood. I don’t live within the Minneapolis city limits, but I consider it my city. To be clear, the location doesn’t even matter because it easily could’ve happened in my sleepy little suburb, or in yours. It can and does happen everywhere and all too often.
As weak and worthless as it sounds, my thoughts and prayers are with the families and first responders who are living this nightmare firsthand. What they witnessed won’t leave them. It will change them. With time and therapy and the grace of God, a scar will form where an open wound formed today.
I believe in prayer, but prayer isn’t enough. These kids were literally praying as they were shot. I wish I knew why evil sometimes wins. I wish I understood where God was at moments like this. I’ve prayed, signed petitions, sent messages to lawmakers, joined groups, and still feel completely helpless.
My 17-year-old was in preschool when sweet little souls were taken at Sandy Hook. I remember the tearful parents at pick-up, eager to hug our own children, sick with the realization that no place was safe. I signed the letters, reached out to my lawmakers, and joined the groups back then too. It feels like not a damn thing has changed for the better.
My son has grown up with mass shootings. These horrific events are normal to him. How sad is that? He is never shocked by the latest tragedy. It is expected. I’m tearful, and he appears numb. We’ve had conversations about shootings and safety, and he’s said if it’s his time, it will be his time. He isn’t wrong, I suppose
Practicing active shooter drills has an impact on your development and perspective. It should be no surprise that so many of our youth struggle with anxiety. There’s plenty to be anxious about.
My family chooses not to live in fear. We go to the city, concerts, events, work, and school, knowing that the possibility exists. It is reality. It doesn’t mean we like it. I’d much prefer that the thought never crossed my mind, that the fear never crept in. Churches and schools should be sanctuaries. Large gatherings should feel celebratory and not risky.
I don’t know how to fix it, any of it—the level of anger, the number of guns, the acceptance of violence, or the division that only seems to grow. We have to do better. We have to do more than think and pray about it, and I don’t know what that looks like.
Until we figure it out, kids’ blood will continue to be on all of our hands.
by Terryn Drieling 
by Shelby Spear 
by Isa Down 
