Guns - Another personal (but darker) Story

 Previously, I shared with you the story of a time when, at least for a few hours, I actually possessed a gun.

This is a second story and this time about a gun that "possesses" me.

These days as we recall gun tragedies in schools, our stories go back usually to beginning with Columbine and the student massacre that took place there. And while it is probably true that the horrid tales of modern day school mssacres should be traced to Columbine, the reality is that  there is to be found a long history of gun violence in our schools.

And while this is not a tale of mass shootings or multiple deaths, it is a tale of a gun tragedy in a school and in our time. It is the tale that, for me, personally, marks the saga of modern day school gun violence.

This story unfolds in late April of 1984 on the West Side of Detroit in Precious Blood Grade School.

It was Holy Week and for the students Easter Break was right around the corner. In fact the final half day of classes before the Great Easter Break was coming to its final minutes. No doubt, with Springtime and Easter heavy in the air, the excitement among the students had to be running very high.

Minutes to go!

And in the eighth grade classroom one  young lad at that moment proudly decided to produce a unique token of his excitement.

He had brought a gun to school!

And this, minutes before that final bell, was the perfect time to produce this item and allow his friends to be properly impressed.

And, indeed, they must have been.

All the while, that is, until, somehow that gun went off. That weapon discharged.

A single bullet.

Just enough to tear across the room and lodge in the skull of an unsuspecting eighth grade girl, a young lady named Kelly.

And in an instant Kelly was gone.

Dead!

I was the pastor of Precious Blood Parish at that time and, thus, that school was directly in my care. One of "my kids," Kelly, was dead and still another, perhaps a couple of others, responsible for her death.

In an instant what had promised to be a calm and quiet few hours before entering the Easter Triduum suddenly turned into nothing short of a nightmare not just for me but for so many.

There were grieving, shocked parents and frantic, fearful parents and bewildered, dazed boys and girls and sirens everywhere and police and media and questions - questions mostly  with no answers right then.

Try, just try and sit down on an evening like that with parents who have just lost their daughter and try, just try and find some words to make sense!

And the next day, with media still hounding and legal authorities still searching for answers, that day that in our calendar is called Holy Thursday, I and the faculty and the parish staff spent in sessions with grief counselors, all just trying to put our own spirits and souls somehow back together.

And on that Friday which we call "Good" there was the usual Service that focused on that long-ago cross and death even as we continued to deal with a right-here-right-now senseless death.

In the evening the church building was filled to overflowing, not for prayer and worship, although there likely was plenty of that present in  hearts and minds, but rather for a neighborhood and community meeting to gather and talk about what had happened and how some healing might begin.

And in Easter Week - the Funeral!

And a whole lot of years have passed  since that moment, those days and yet, in all honesty, every time a new story of a school and youngsters and a gun or guns emerges, well, for me it is like tearing a bandage off an old wound and opening it yet again.

I continue to be called to grieve and so I do.

And as I do, I can only imagine what some parents are going through and some kids and some teachers and some First Responders. Sandy Hook! Uvalde! And so many others!

And I can also suspect that, even after all these years, there are those who were part of this story who, likewise, still feel the pain and those wounds. This sort of hurt just does not heal.

A single bullet has taken one life.

It has also wounded countless others.

I know.

I continue to be one of those.

Guns - A Personal Story

 Guns are the topic of many a conversation these days, and, I might add, rightly so. As a society we are being forced to take some hard looks at our present policies, laws and practices. And with guns being such a hot topic at present, I thought I might share a little bit of my own personal history as it involved guns.

You see, there was a tie when I had a gun.

And notice, I did say, "Had."

I do not possess a gun today and I, personally, do not feel any need to own one, desire one, or even handle one. While this is my own personal feeling, I do not understand believing that, somehow, a gun provides me personal protection. I am willing to leave that matter to those legally charged with my personal protection.

And I say that just to get it out of the way.

I do not intend to invite any attempts to persuade my changing my mind.

This is just my present, persistent and personal mode of thinking and I am at peace with it.

Having got that out of the way, let me tell you about a time when I actually did have a gun.

And, please, do not ask me what make or what capacity or what anything else about those devices.

I do not know, never even bothered to find out.

All I know is that it was a handgun.

You know. One of those things you can rather easily hold in your hand.

And I would guess that you had to put bullets ito it somehow but I never actually bothered to find out any of those details.

I hd a gun - briefly.

It was my father's gun.

Dad had a gun. For many years he had a gun. He had to have a gun because of his job. He was a Wayne County Deputy Sheriff. In fact for one shift daily five days a week, he was in charge of the operation of the Wayne County Jail.

His job required that he have a gun.

Occasionally, we saw it. He never really showed it off and I have to say, I am not sure if he even shot it off. I would suspect that, because of his job, he would have had to know how to use it and actually get in some actuations practice.

He had a gun and when he retired, his gun retired with him.

It was his to keep and keep it he did.

Frankly, we never really saw it after his retirement. We just sort of knew that he had it.

And when he died, we knew that sooner or later, we would find it and actually have to deal with it.

It was some days after the funeral and we were going through things when the gun was discovered. As I recall, it was wrapped and tucked away in a box high up on a shelf in one of the closets.

The finder, one of my siblings, let out a shrill sound and that let the rest of us know.

The gun had been found.

And as executor of the estate, it fell to me to take possession and deal with that gun.

Keeping it wrapped and boxed, I laid claim to the gun.

It was now mine to deal with and to this day I could not even tell you if it was or was not loaded. I did not take it out of that box or the wrappings.

I did take it home.

And when I got there, I almost immediately placed a phone call to a local police office whom I knew. I explained what I had and asked for professional guidance in dealing with it.

"Do you want to keep it?"

"Not a chance!"

"Does anyone else in the family want it."

"Not a chance."

The officer offered to come and pick the gun up. It would be officially turned in. We would receive a financial compensation for turning it in. ($50.00 as I recall!)

And soon enough that gun was out of sight, out of my hands and on its way to gun heaven or something.

But the fact is that for a few brief hours I actually did have a gun.

And truth be told, I was glad to get rid of it.

Sorry, Dad, but that's the truth!