An explanation.

My father was killed in a tragic accident when I was sixteen years old. At a memorial tree planting several months later, I read the following poem to the mourners:

Do not stand at my grave and weep,

I am not there; I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow,

I am the diamond glints on snow,

I am the sun on ripened grain,

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning’s hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circling flight.

I am the soft starlight at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry,

I am not there; I did not die.

This poem has always brought me great comfort, and in the aftermath of the Newtown shootings, it has returned to me again and again. I pray for comfort for those twenty seven lost souls and for their loved ones, for their brokenhearted community, and yet I am so overwhelmed by the thought of their grief. I cannot even begin to imagine what those left behind are feeling, experiencing, and enduring - or what they will continue to endure in the days and months and years to come. I myself feel shocked, confused, and angry. I cannot turn away from the media coverage. I cannot stop thinking about Newtown.

Every mass shooting in this country horrifies and saddens me, especially since I myself almost experienced one. I was at the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum on the June day in 2009 when an 88 year old neo-Nazi stormed the entrance and opened fire, killing one of the guards while they returned his fire. I heard several "popping" noises and I thought nothing of it - I assumed it was a child banging on a metal pole in the room. But as people started to scream and run, I realized, in complete disbelief, what was happening. I was in the gift shop, which is close to the entrance and could have been the first stop for the shooter had he gotten past the guards. Not knowing what was happening or where he was, I piled on top of a group of school children at the very back of the room, hoping the nearby bookshelves would provide us some cover. We were just trying to hide. I remember thinking "please God, give my mother comfort," and "I hope it doesn't hurt"; I tried to think about seeing my father again. I tried to prepare to die. But after an agonizing ten minutes, law enforcement officials came into the room screaming at us to run, and we evacuated. I was lucky that day. My mother has not had to read that poem and think of me. The family of that brave guard, Stephen Tyrone Johns, cannot say the same - but because of him, myself and countless others are still alive.

But now, Newtown has cracked something in me. After my experience at the Museum, after Columbine and Virginia Tech and Tuscon and Aurora, and every shooting in between, I can no longer sit in passive horror and watch these massacres keep happening. I can no longer passively endure the sadness as the names and ages and faces of innocent victims continue to scroll across my television screen. I refuse to accept that this is unpreventable, that we are powerless because there will always be crazy people in the world, that freedom and safety are mutually exclusive. I cannot tolerate arguments for more weapons, careless and hypocritical accusations of "politicization," or the all-or-nothing thinking that undermines any attempt at a meaningful national dialogue.

It is clear to me that we are not living up to "the better angels of our nature," as President Lincoln implored of us. Instead, we accuse, we dodge responsibility, and we refuse to ask the hard questions and demand real answers. It is unacceptable and unforgivable. It is time to stand up and be brave and do whatever we can do to stop this. It is time to honor our nation's victims by coming together in solidarity against senseless violence. We must do more, we must do better, than simply to stand at their graves and weep.