My anger meter is broken.

Mute. Flat. Dead. Like a lot of people.

Ours is the world of the body count. Nine doesn’t impress like twelve does, students don’t impress like people at bible study. None impresses like the first thirteen at Columbine when boys in trench coats murdered and maimed their fellow students. Cars pulled over to the side of the road that day to listen to the news.

Then there were more and more, adults and babies, kids waiting in line, couples at the movies, teachers taking attendance, people praying.

And there was just so much blood that people got sick of looking at it.

It’s time to realize that we are living in a barbarous place. If we don’t harden ourselves to that, we will be crushed by the reality, unable to function, go to school, buy bread on the way home, ice skate at the rink downtown. The guns are everywhere. In coat pockets, strapped on ankles, stuffed in backpacks, lying on the seat of the car. This is what’s real now. The guns are everywhere.

The fear will be paralyzing if we don’t adjust to this. Anything can happen and no one is safe.

Like lightening striking. When it happens, it happens. There’s nothing we can do.