The woods surrounding my home are dark. There is a comforting quiet imposed by the darkness. I commune with the dark woods, and it fills my soul. But not last Wednesday night. I sat alone on my porch under a starlit sky. My family was sleeping restlessly behind safe walls and under comfortable blankets. My daughters were restless, as was my wife. I was restless as well. Restless to the point of forsaking my warm bed for the chill of the night. The darkness surrounding our home did not beckon me to commune with it. It did not comfort me. It did not fill my soul. It, that night, was an imposing void.
Credit: Handout
Credit: Handout
One county over, restless families slept in waiting rooms. Restless fathers pondered the night and found no communion with the darkness. Restless doctors and restless nurses tended to restless daughters who finally found rest through the steady, soothing drip of anesthesia.
Our evening was unexpectedly calm. We attend church one county over. Youth leaders made the wise decision to cancel activities for the night. Churches across the county remained dark with their doors locked. Homes became places of worship at the close of the day. A few more prayers ascended than normal. I don’t know what they prayed for, but I can make an educated guess: protection, comfort, understanding, justice. I’m guessing a few asked for nothing at all. Prayers of rage. I understand those prayers now. We said a prayer as a family. We prayed for our friends and family one county over. Alone on my porch, I sent a selfish prayer into the night sky. I prayed that my friends and family one county over never have to pray for me.
Do we send our children to school? This is a question my wife and I wrestled with for the next few days. We will wrestle with this for the next few years. More police, more equipment, more resources for the schools. However, we are not putting our trust in any of those. In reality, we are placing our trust in statistics. Surely, this won’t happen again just one county over. This will probably happen again, but not here, right? Statistics aren’t a comforting protector. I can’t meet with statistics, or vote for statistics, or pray to statistics. Statistics is a cold, indifferent god. It didn’t protect the children one county over. Can it really protect mine?
As my oldest daughter went to bed, her eyes were still red from crying. She reminds me of myself, many years before. I was in high school when I watched in disbelief the events of Sept. 11, 2001, unfold. Unlike my daughter, I held back my tears, at least in front of others. I waited for the protection of solitude. My feelings then were the same as hers are now. Fear, sadness, a desire to understand, a yearning for a sense of protection. Manhattan was 700 miles away, but, to my young heart, it felt like it was one county over.
On Wednesday, I read about developments in the ongoing war in Ukraine. The list of the dead grew. I heard, in between reports from the local news, about the continued hostilities in Israel and Palestine. The list of the dead grew. Last week, these places I will never visit felt like they were a world away. Now they feel like they are just one county over.
It’s an election year. And Georgia is a battleground state. Candidates and media personalities will fill the airwaves with familiar debates, all emboldened by the events that took place one county over. We might even have one or two of them visit in the coming days. We will watch them thump their chests and pound their podiums. Gun control! Mental health resources! Budget this! Tax that! There’s probably a solution in there somewhere. It’s hard to find a solution to something that already happened. People are already talking about legacies. Children should have dreams, not legacies.
I contemplated attending the candlelight vigil the night of the shooting. I certainly would have been in good company there. Familiar faces are welcomed at a time like this. I work one county over. I worship one county over. My friends live one county over. Family members live one county over. I’m relieved my friends have one another tonight and will be able to take comfort together in the glowing light of candles. People need one another. They need comfort. I hope to provide what comfort I can to whomever I can in the coming days. But that night, I stayed on my porch. I let my emotions run down my face under the protection of solitude. I held vigil alone. I held vigil with the crickets who warn me that summertime cannot last forever. I held vigil with the barred owl, its cry mournful in the blackness of my woods. I held vigil with the darkness of the night. The stars above my candles.
Doyle Johnson is a real estate attorney who oversees the Winder office of Lueder, Larkin & Hunter. He and his family live in Jackson County.
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