I'm tired of this.
I'm tired of turning on the television or firing up the computer or glancing down at my smart phone and seeing ... sheer dread and havoc wrought by man's hand.
I thought it would be the last time on December 14, 2012. Well, I prayed it, anyway. To be honest, I still can barely think of the massacre at Sandy Hook Elementary School without weeping.
But then again, I've prayed for it to end before ... after the tragedies at: the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City in 1995, Columbine High School in Colorado in 1999 and of course, at the World Trade Center in New York City / the Pentagon in Washington, D.C., and that random patch of ground in Shanksville, Pa., in September of 2001.
Sadly, after many, many other preventable and horrendous acts of evil that ended with unfathomable tragedy, I have prayed and prayed and prayed.
And I'm tired. Not of praying; I will never tire of that. I'm tired of witnessing malicious cowardice cloaked in the wrapping of indignant defiance, radical philosophies or perceived wrongs.
I take it back, I'm not only tired. I'm distraught.
I cannot stand the thought that three mothers are now without their precious children; that innocent well-wishers are now without limbs or otherwise so harmed physically and emotionally that they will never really live life as they did prior to 4.15.13. I'm beside myself that, because so many people gathered for such a pinnacle of sport and health and community and accomplishment, their wonderful intentions, supportive gestures and frankly overall good will was rewarded with death and destruction.
I take it back. I'm not only tired and distraught. I'm angry. Mad as hell, actually.
As a Christian, as a mother, heck, as a runner who's participated on both sides of the finishing tape at dozens of marathons and half-marathons ... I am really, really angry.
Furious that a beautiful little 8-year-old boy couldn't stand with family to cheer on friends without paying for it with his life. Furious that his sister is now without a leg and that his mother has suffered brain injury so traumatic, the outcome is unclear.
Furious for the other fatalities and injuries that occurred but also for the injustice that befell runners who trained for months, maybe years, to achieve admission to the arguably toughest and most prestigious marathon in the world, only to be diverted at mile 26 and never finish . . . or to have the utter joy of their finishes marred by this huge blood stain.
Furious that we, as a country, sit silently by as we watch people in positions of power rip our God out of the very fabric of the American dream with which He has blessed us - only to point a finger upward when evil strikes.
This isn't God's handiwork. He hasn't left us - we've simply let a noisy minority wield Him out of our federal buildings, schools and even streets.
What we need to do is pray. Pray for peace. Pray for justice. Pray our full and true return to the status of one nation under God.
Pray for the cowardly scum who choose evil to be quickly found and swiftly judged and punished completely completely.
Leave it to my dear, sweet friend Christine Ruggieri of Warren to help me see some glimmer of hope in all this: the reaction of John Q. Public to the Boston Marathon tragedy. The proof that no matter what wicked cretin wreaks havoc, good will always outlast and overcome bad.
She pointed me in the direction of one of the countless news stories about the event; one which concluded with the words of the late Fred Rogers, a World War II vet, Christian minister and children's television show host, who said:
"When I was a little boy and something bad happened in the news, my mother would tell me to look for the helpers. You'll always find people helping, she'd say. And I've found that that's true. In fact, it's one of the best things about our wonderful world."
Please pray that our world becomes wonderful again ... with a little help from above.
Kimerer is a Tribune Chronicle columnist and believer in God and good. Share your prayers to end violence and evil with her at firstname.lastname@example.org.