Seventeen Beds

Since 1987, it has been a blessing to have children begin a new day from the place I call home. In the many places we have called home, my children didn't always have a room to call their own, sometimes they had to share a bed with a sibling. But it has always been home.

For more than thirty years, late at night, after the lights are out and dreams revealed, I quietly open their doors, peeking in to ascertain my children are safely in their beds. My nightly ritual began when they were small enough to doze in a crib and continued until they were old enough to drive their own car. Whether they were a newborn baby, an adolescent, a grandchild or even the occasional wayward teenage-best- friend I had opened our home to (I have had them all), my nightly ceremony was constant.

I must pause for just a moment to address my children directly—Yes, I knew of the times a bedroom window was quietly opened becoming a way to sneak-out, or the times the back door opened slowly but not as silently as you thought. I suppose I didn’t know of every moon lit adventure, but I promise you this, I always knew you would come back home.

Now, back to my late-night ritual. I practice this for two reasons—my love of my children and because I am the parent. This week, in the quiet community of Parkland, Florida, seventeen beds are forever empty. I think about the fathers and mothers and other loved ones who tonight may look into a darkened room already knowing the bed belonging to their child will be empty; witnessing this emptiness as they pray that it has all been a bad dream.

In 1993, I enhanced my sentinel duties by including a nightly prayer for my children. In April of that year I surrendered my life to our Lord Jesus Christ. Prior to that, I had prayed infrequently, only if an occasion dictated it; family holidays, my twice a year visit to church and of course when the Cowboys were down by seven with two minutes remaining in the game. Being born again not only opened my eyes to what prayer should be, but my reformation also revealed what being a parent truly requires of us.

Every night I pray, I ask the Lord to blanket my children with His promise, I will never leave you or forsake you. Deu. 31. I ask Him to be with them when I cannot, to let them experience His love daily. I pray He guide my awkward parenting skills to the Scriptures that teach me to be a family leader. I pray to understand His words clearly, so to share them with my children, inspiring them to desire their own relationship with Him. To be able, with love, teach them the differences between right and wrong, to recognize the realities of good and evil. But mostly I pray they will always know how much I love them.

Seventeen empty beds.

Today and for the next few days, on our televisions and radios we will hear the experts whom inevitably surface when these horrific events occur, to offer repeated answers to rehashed and well-rehearsed questions— “Can this horror be prevented?”, “When will this stop?” “How many more must die?” Debates will follow of stricter gun control, mental health awareness, security in our schools and empowering law officers to act before the criminal kills. I don’t know if any of these or all of them together are the answer. I do know we float these political balloons after each mass shooting, but the helium always runs out before answers are discovered,  and as the next less painful headline moves us along. They might consider beginning with more helium.

In the shadows of the next headline, the unanswered questions still lurk. Will fewer guns mean fewer bad guys? Or will fewer guns mean more opportunities for the bad guys? Is mental health research only beneficial after the diagnosed has delivered the deadly damage? Too late to know he's crazy now. Who will pay for increased school security? What about the schools or districts that wallow in poverty? Who will pay for theirs? Do we hire former soldiers to police our schools as we ignore the epidemic levels of PTSD? What if this newly hired employee, our guardian-elect, has concealed his own demons?

The questions are difficult. The answers elusive. We can’t undo the carnage of this week or any of the past school shootings whose images still haunt us. The pathway is gloomy. But I do believe we can begin to lessen the risk, or maybe even put an end to future schoolhouse violence. The answer is in how we begin our trek down this pathway. Before we debate new laws, before we spend billions of dollars on redundant research, before we turn on our televisions to again see the images of our children fleeing in fear a place purported to be safe; before we do all these things we must remember and embrace the commanding responsibility of parenthood. Through parenting and praying, a fresh beginning is possible.

The solutions mentioned above all require more—more laws, more money, more training...more waiting. We need less—less evil, less bad boys who grow up to be bad men, less families fractured by divorce, less fatherless households.

Yesterday’s shooter came from a broken family, passed through a broken system, and he did a terrible, terrible thing. I wonder if a parent ever once prayed for him. I wonder who will pray for him now?

Dads and Moms, grandpas, and grandmas, you have a God-given opportunity to change the lives of your children every day through parenting and prayer. Pray about them. Pray for them. Just pray. Then tell them you prayed for them. When they ask why, tell them it’s because you love them. Because you are the parent.

And then pray with them.

Tonight, when the moon appears in the winter sky, and the lights are turned low, put on your slippers, open their doors and thank God, they are yours.