35 Minutes From Newtown

It's a cold, grey afternoon here in Central Connecticut; but I'm inside. Our fireplace is lit, our Christmas tree twinkles in the corner - and as if by some obsessive-compulsive urge I keep counting the stockings that hang on the mantle.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. All present and accounted for.

From my perch in the living room, I can hear my five children giggling in the kitchen. They're decorating gingerbread houses, though I'm sure more candy has landed in their stomachs than on the frosted roofs. In a few minutes they'll go watch "Frosty the Snowman" or "Elmo's Christmas Countdown" for the umpteenth time; but for now their focus - their only care in the world - revolves around candy canes and gumdrops.

It dawns on me, as it has often over the past three days, that I could get in my car right now and drive to Sandy Hook Elementary School in about 35 minutes. Thirty-five minutes. That's all that separates my kids' little gingerbread houses from what many have deemed the epicenter of evil in this cruel, inexplicable world.

The questions won't stop pouring through my mind:

What has society come to?

Where is our collective conscience?

How does a loving, compassionate God allow something like this to happen?

Over the next several weeks, reflection will be aplenty. Analyses both forensic and philosophical will inundate - if not consume - us. Our tiny state of Connecticut will undoubtedly lead every news outlet from Dateline NBC to People magazine, while (hopefully) a national public policy debate on semi-automatic weapons will ensue.

And in nine days we'll celebrate Christmas.

I look up again at our stockings. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. All present and accounted for.

May God bless those who aren't as lucky.