All for the love of my eighteen-year old, I attendedMurder Con weeks ago. Not a chance in Sherlock did this spark my imagination--untilI thought of her. She loves nothing better than watching or reading anything mysterious.Solving problems is rooted in her blood, perhaps because she sat in a Chineseorphanage for 7½ years. The only toy she had was the window she watched theworld through. Consequently, her observation skills are keener than the best ofthem. In a world crowded with images, she can parse out the minisculecase-cracker or lost person at DisneyWorld, during high volume.   

MurderCon, also known as Writers’ Police Academy,focused on forensics. Our first two classes were easy enough on my stomach--theuse of geology to answer questions, and bio and chemical warfare. (I’d readenough about the Black Death not to be horrified here.) The next class,however, was Blood Evidence. The truck tire hit the country road, gravel andall, in this one. An hour and twenty minutes of blood. Blood spatter (thoushalt never say blood splatter) wallpapered the room. The instructor told astory about the teen son whacking his father with a bat for insurance money. (Don’tfear, sports’ parents. Hammers are the most commonly used crime weapon. Lock upthe tools!).

The speaker shifted from words to PowerPoint. The image of an actual dead person lingered on the screen, the way a crime photographer would see him. Methodical, thorough, searching for every drop of blood, every position of the spatter. I had to pause here. This wasn’t makeup like the haunts in the Halloween corn mazes. This had been a living, breathing person, one perhaps with a family, definitely with a soul, now gone from this world forever. The writers leaned in. My daughter hunted for clues. I leaned away. I’ve walked my parents through death, but this one photograph broke the last bit of innocence in me. My landscape changed. One moment this man was doing his desk work on a ship. The next, he was a bloody mess.

As the excellent instructor from Sirchie spoke, I started following his logic. This is where the blood dripped, how it congealed, drying from the outside in.This is where his hair painted sweeps on the Naugahyde chair, like some faux art project. His arm extended, with the fingers curved into his palm, as if he were holding a delicate thing--a lighting bug, a seashell or a diamond ring for his wife.

I started praying in the firearms class. I could tellby the smooth skin and muscles this victim was a young man. As it turned out,he was trying to get out of selling drugs. I knew kids who’d done similarthings like this in their youth, who had guns held to their heads, and for somereason, the shooter granted mercy. In one case, the young man’s humor, conjuredfrom a life of wit, somehow broke the spell. The gun was lowered and today, Ican hug this person. The young man on the PowerPoint wasn’t so fortunate. Hewas trying to do the right thing and ended up on a metal table, with family andfriends grieving him. Always the body, always the body. His skin and musclesand bones held the clues as to how he was murdered. This is when my fogcleared, and I blanketed “Dear God” prayers over my family, friends and nation.

We skipped a workshop to go to the mall across the street, shopping being my daughter’s other passion. We entered the ironic world of pristine walls and halls, and headless mannequins. Commerce flashed. Mission-minded people rushed. Dads lectured young sons yearning for ball fields. After the immersion of the police state of mind, I thought one thing: soft target. My own little sunburst of happiness rose when I spotted the bra store. My fears crushed by the deep first-world need of undergarments. We breathed deeply the perfume-spritzed air, the perfect relief from hours of crime labs.

At the end of the workshops, my daughter and I lingeredin the lobby. The news flashed about El Paso, Texas. Such are the times we livein, when I pray the death rate remains low. But, as we know, it didn’t go downthat way, nor did the more recent Odessa, Texas. It seems it never does. Thedust hasn’t even settled, the forensics hasn’t even started, before somethingelse crops up, as the cries come from both sides: Ban guns; it’s the personbehind the trigger.

You and I have our own sides. I could point to history and constitutional rights, and tell you how this might play out. You would point to your own beliefs and reasons. We’d be civil or snarky, depending on our discipline or aptitude, or heaven helps us, my hormones. But the question reminds the same for all: What in the world do we do here?

The day after MurderCon and El Paso, the morning ofDayton, Pastor Dan asked me during our worship time to pray for him becausehe’d thrown out his message and was winging it. “We’re talking about theshootings.” He led us through an immense time of lament. We didn’t pick sidesand employ rights. We lamented. The Latin root of this word showed up twice tomean ‘bewail.’ That’s what our church did: we bewailed. No, it wasn’t a loud cryof voices or tearing of clothes, as they practiced in the Old Testament times. Thoughthose would have been appropriate responses. It was more at a shrouding of ourhearts in pain and sorrow for those lost, for their loved ones and communities.

We struggled as a church of hunters with guns. We werewarned to be responsible. We were asked the question that ever one should askof themselves: if I legally own a gun, would I shoot a person if he or she enteredmy home uninvited with intent to harm? There is so much that goes into aone-word answer. We were asked to search our hearts. We were commissioned to beschooled in weapons if we chose to own them.

We prayed for the families, the first responders, ourlocal and national governments, our nation. We followed it up with thecommunion, where Christians remember the shed blood of Christ for our sins tocleanse us from all wrongdoings. If you don’t follow as I do, just know that ancienthistory is filled with sacrifices involving this live-giving fluid.

Blood. It is everywhere. We pump it into people tosave them, as was most surely the case in Texas and Ohio. We stretch our armsout, making a fist, to give it to help others who need bags to be restored.

It is shed in heinous acts, not just in this century,identified by names such as Columbine, El Paso, Dayton and Pulse, but bymillions in the 20th century via governments and in the 1300s by theBlack Plague. Be it microbe, cancer cell, heart attack or weapon, we each circlethe sun for a last time. As we lay dying, our body muscles relax and give upfluids. The ‘what’ of death we get. The how, the when, the where are theunknowns.

The common denominator is the taking of a life. Theacts committed in crime are definitely to be handled in a different light thanthose by disease or ‘natural’ causes. The point in all of them is that life isgone. Fingers curl into themselves, as if remembering the gift once held.   

There’s two ways we can go at this point: unbelief orbelief. First, I’d like to note that just because I’m white and an old woman atthat, and believe in the whole Second Amendment, I’m not a white supremacist.Just because I’m a Christian, doesn’t mean I don’t doubt and ask, why, God? Theonly thing keeping me from going to unbelief is my years spent as an atheist.The only time I even get why the world is broken is through an understanding ofthe first five chapters of the Bible, or the Pentateuch. The Torah.

How you process death personally is your choice. Howwe process these hate crimes as a nation, now there’s the question. Step one,pick your platform: Hollywood, conservative talk radio, the dark web. Ahashtag. Step two: rail, be logical, point to the Constitution, prep. Pray.Denounce prayer. Step three: label the other side.

During our bewailing, Pastor Dan asked our church tostep up. Look for someone who’s isolated and alone or traveling towarddarkness. Reach out. Be a lifeline to another. Be a light. This is hard, andtakes time and considerable caution and wisdom. At the very least, payattention to their words.  

At Murder Con, the forensic investigators had a goldenrule. It was this: Do no harm. In other words, at a crime scene, whatever yourexpertise, make sure you do no harm to the evidence so other experts canascertain information. My dad’s words near the end of his life were even morepotent: “leave this world in a better place than you found it.” For him, thatwas providing work for people at his company, who were his first loves and hislast words before falling face down on the kitchen tile. His heart had givenout.

I wish I had some magnificent idea here that wouldbring us all together and solve this problem instantly. I don’t. I’m hesitantto even throw in some Bible. Particularly, because I have watched a womanreceive the news of her son’s unnatural death. I’ve fallen to the cold highschool floor with her and cried, knowing I had not one word in me that would solvethis. The day after, she stood in front of my large window, the sun rising, spikingthe sky deep pink, her tears adding to the others throughout the night. Thereare mothers and fathers and children and grandparents and lovers and friends allover the world doing the very same this morning.

 I have not oneword that will ease their pain. Only the beat of my heart ushering bloodthroughout my body, transcending veins and arteries, aching into mind andspirit. Only this breath to hate evil actions, and love on people. It’s theonly transcendent weapon I got.

Photo by Cassi Josh on Unsplash