In times like this, when the world feels like it makes no sense, I feel overwhelmed trying to think of ways I can help. Should I fly to Vegas? Donate blood? Send money? What on earth can I, a mom with four little kids at home, really do to make a difference?
I find myself getting depressed about the state of the world, wondering if I made a mistake bringing kids into it, wondering if anything I do even matters. But when the world feels like too much, I have to remind myself to focus on the way I can make a difference—especially because it's been right in front of me all along, right here at home.
Yes, there's a need for the big and the bold gestures, the dramatic efforts that make a difference, the daring rescues and the heroics of so many first responders and officers and medical staff who work tirelessly for others. Yes, there is a need for the people who are lining the Vegas streets right now to donate blood in an attempt to make up for the blood that has been shed from the victims of this horrific and senseless act of violence. Yes, there will always be a need for people who are willing to help.
But there is also a need for the people at home.
The world feels scary and bleak and hopeless right now. And honestly? I don't know what to do. I'm sitting at home, warm and cozy, and I feel helpless. I woke up, with the hope of Monday beckoning me, and my heart sank immediately when I opened my feeds this morning.
No, I thought to myself. This isn't happening again. But it is. And I don't know how to help. But you know what I do know how to do?
I know how to pack my children's backpacks and fix them their favorite snacks in their lunches because I know it will bring a smile to their faces at lunchtime.
I know how remind my husband to grab his cup of coffee as he rushes out of the door, because I know he will appreciate having it later on during his morning of teaching middle-schoolers.
I know how to switch a load of laundry and keep my family clothed.
I know how to plan our meals for the week, nourishing small bellies each and every day.
I know how to show up, each and every afternoon, to my children's school, my face the first they see after a long day of learning.
I know how to hug my 3-year-old, the soft chubbiness of her cheeks, the feel of her little arms around me slowly melting away into the long limbs of a big girl.
I know how to hide a breaking heart and cheer my children on as they grow before me.
I know how to scrub toilets and balance our budget and shop for groceries and clean floors and match socks and hang prized drawings on my fridge.
Six-year-old Noah Pozner's parents wanted to bury the young boy with letters of love from family who couldn't make the funeral, but since Jewish tradition calls for burial as soon as possible after a passing, it seemed impossible that the notes would get to Newtown in time for the funeral. But JetBlue made it happen, stepping in to fly the letters in from all over. Noah’s casket was overflowing with these loving goodbyes when he was laid to rest Monday.