There was a time when I could watch the
news without shaking and crying. 

There was a time when the reporter’s
words wouldn’t pierce right through
me — each name read in memoriam
like a bullet to my chest. 

There was a time when my
heart wasn’t constantly
breaking — every crack
echoing like gunfire. 

There was a time when it didn’t feel like
hell had somehow penetrated the
border between here and there — the
poisonous fumes of hate and anger
seeping through the cracks in our
humanity. 

There was a time when I didn’t worry about my
husband, my son, about everyone I love being
murdered—shot down at work or school or
church or the grocery store or the movies or a
bar or a concert or any place they thought was
safe. A time when sanctuary wasn’t a land far,
far away. 

There was a time when I didn’t break down because
my son texted to say his school was on lockdown
and it wasn’t a drill and I was unable to do anything
except hold my husband’s hand and wait to hear that
everything was ok and it was just a false alarm. A
time when I didn’t fear letting my son walk out the
door. 

There was a time when I didn’t have to write these
words, when I didn’t have to dedicate every prayer
to the victims of another mass shooting. 

There was a time. Wasn’t
there? 

Lisa Lerma Weber is a wife, mother, and writer holding on tight to dreams and hope.

Note of inspiration: “I am female. of Hispanic-Filipino descent. Great-granddaughter of immigrants. A mother. My heart breaks and my soul aches and I write to deal with and to fight against the violence and racism plaguing this country.”

image: panel 52 of The Migration Series (1940-41) by Jacob Lawrence. PLEASE visit art book for an understanding of Lawrence’s original caption for his work: “One of the largest race riots occurred in East St. Louis.”