Hoping for Snow in Newtown

I hope it snows in Newtown today.

The slow-falling, soft, huge, puffy flakes that you can catch on your tongue kind of snow.

Not a blizzard, the folks there don’t need that stress. And not the dry powdery snow that stings your cheeks in the wind. But a few inches of the good stuff, the wet snow that rolls up into boulder-like balls. I’m hoping for the snow that soaks your mittens, packs firmly together into perfect white orbs, and squishes into puddles under your boots.

If it did snow, I’d want to go there and throw snowballs at street signs, and trees, and fence posts like I did as a kid. I’d launch one snowball for each tear I’ve shed since last Friday. I’d put all of my anger and sadness and disbelief into every throw and I keep hurling until my shoulder hurt.

And then I’d get to work. I’d build a snowman. But one snowman wouldn’t be enough. I’d make 20, all about three feet tall.

One each for Charlotte Bacon,

Daniel Barden,

Oliva Engel,

Josephine Gay,

Ana Marquez-Greene,

Dylan Hockley,

Madeleine Hsu,

Catherine Hubbard,

Chase Kowalski,

Jesse Lewis,

James Mattioli,

Grace McDonnell

Emilie Parker,

Jack Pinto,

Noah Pozner,

Caroline Previdi,

Jessica Rekos,

Avielle Richman,

Benjamin Wheeler,

And Allison Wyatt.

I’d arrange about eight in rows, seven others in a circle. Some would be in a group of three, next to another group of two. I’d place seven taller snow-woman in and around the 20.

Vicki Soto would be up front, teaching.

Rachel Davino would be helping a small group.

Lauren Rousseau could sit with the circled-up seven.

Anne Marie Murphy would be reading to the group of three.

Mary Sherlach would be observing.

Nancy Lanza would be there to volunteer.

Dawn Hochsprung will stand in the back, overseeing.

When finished, I’d invite the people of Newtown to surround my snow classroom. I’d seek out the first-responders, the pastors, and rabbis. I’d ask the grieving parents and the heart-broken neighbors to be there. I’d gather the counselors, acupuncturists, art therapists, and massage therapists who came from all over the east coast to lend support. I’d thank the guy from North Carolina who brought nine huggable, face-licking service dogs to help comfort the families. I’d greet the old man who lives across the street from Sandy Hook School and sheltered six kids who escaped the bullets. I’d find Lt. Paul Vance and shake his hand, tell him thank you.

People would bring scarves and hats to adorn the snow children. We’d put lights in the nearby trees. I’d tell anybody who’d listen about how I started my teaching career in a first-grade classroom. Those children in my initial class graduated from high school in 2012. I’d mention my chilling sadness that these 20 students will not see second grade, let alone a commencement ceremony. I’d remember the first graders that I currently tutor and stand dumbfounded that this could happen to little, innocent, happy, hungry-for-learning kids.

I’d ask the congregants to link hands and surround the children. Anybody would be free to share their thoughts, maybe say a prayer. We’d light candles. Following a moment of silence, we’d start with the Christmas songs. Silent Night. O Little Town. What Child is This? I’d think of the scene in “The Grinch” when the people of Whoville woke up on Christmas morning and still celebrated despite their missing gifts and decorations. And even though someone took so very, very much from this community, he couldn’t stop Christmas either.

I’d ask the people to end the singing with O Holy Night and then I’d slip away into the cold darkness with their voices drifting like snow behind me. I’d pause at the words that symbolize Christmas in my own mind and heart:

A Thrill of Hope,

A Weary World Rejoices …

… I’d fall on my knees and say my own little prayer. A prayer for healing and recovery in this weary place. A prayer for the thrill of hope to settle over this town the way it did many years ago in a small city in Israel.

I’d end my prayer with thanks.

Thanks for hope.

Thanks for Christmas.

Thanks for the children.

Thanks for the snow in Newtown.