Perspective
Prayers and cabin fever in the
crosshairs
By JOE FEUERHERD
We’re skipping Mass
today,” I announced. It was Oct. 13, a week and a half into the sniper
attacks that had begun to dominate our lives. We’re not a Sunday
Mass-optional type of family, so the children, ages 12, 14 and 16, greeted the
news with some astonishment (and probably some suppressed delight).
Still, my teenage daughter wouldn’t give her father an inch,
even with a gunman on the loose. She informed me that our absence would be a
mortal sin. She knew her catechism. Even so, I knew my catechism-for-dads. We
stayed home. Indoors. At dinner, we prayed the police would catch the killer
and thanked God for keeping us safe. But indoors.
October is beautiful in the Washington area. Not too much rain,
mild temperatures, the perfect time to be outside. My son, the oldest, was
infuriated. He tried to nail me down. “When are you going to let me go to
the park? Tomorrow? The next day?” he asked. Playground basketball is his
passion.
I tried to explain -- and sounded like Ari Fleisher trying to
dodge the press. “We’ll continue to do what we’ve got to do, but
we have to look at all optional activities and decide on a case-by-case basis
if we can do them.” Small comfort to the cabin-fevered.
Rationally, in an area of 6 million people, the likelihood of
walking into the assassin’s crosshairs was exceedingly slim. You’d
have a better chance winning the lottery.
This, however, was not a rational exercise. The shooter hit, quite
literally, where we live. Our grocery store, our gas station. Six
of the 13 shootings occurred within five miles of our home, the closest less
than a mile away.
A strange parlor game developed: Who is this guy, or, as it turned
out, guys? Not overtly racist, instead an equal opportunity psychopath who
fired with skill at whites, blacks, Indians, Hispanics, men and women. There
was no apparent political message, but a Clockwork Orange-like rage exacted one
.223 caliber rifle shot at a time. Very strange.
The following weekend we headed to rural Pennsylvania, my
in-laws’ home, for refuge. The only concern there -- 280 miles north of
Montgomery County -- is that a New Jersey “flatlander” will mistake
you for a buck during deer season. We went to Mass at Holy Name of Mary, where
we prayed for the murders to end.
Back home, we settled into a strange routine. Most everything was
cancelled or postponed -- soccer matches and Boy Scout outings, volleyball
practices and the homecoming dance -- so it was school, work and home. I
dropped the kids off each morning at the school door, and picked them up at the
same spot to minimize public exposure.
“Your children are not safe anywhere at anytime,” said
the postscript to the note left at the penultimate crime scene in Ashland, Va.
Of course, we knew that already, but it was angering and not a little
frightening to hear it so directly.
I advised my wife, a teacher, to be prepared when she entered or
left our minivan in the school’s parking lot. Park as close as you can,
don’t lock the doors so you don’t have to fiddle with keys when
you’re leaving, don’t stop between work and home, keep your cell
phone on.
A train whistle in the distance used to wake us up; it was
replaced by the whirl of police helicopter blades.
Like everyone else, I ducked as I pumped gas; studied the line of
sight before loading groceries.
Then, on Oct. 24, capture.
The rapidly receding experience was, I think, more unnerving for
the parents than the children, at least our children. But one thing is clear:
They know at far too young an age a world chock full of crazies; that random
acts of God or man are not leveled solely or even largely at the malevolent or
evil. That life is not fair.
No one knows that better today than the families of those killed
or maimed in what should have been another beautiful Washington autumn.
We’ll pray for them.
Joe Feuerherd is NCR Washington correspondent.
National Catholic Reporter, November 08,
2002
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