A letter to Davila

My dear Davila,

I took my son to the bus stop this morning. It's a grey, rainy day in Glenmoore, with the quiet of the still early morning broken only by the sound of birds singing and the occasional car driving down to our main roads. People going to work. To the gym. To school. To the grocery store.

I took my son's lunch -- the organic apple, the juice, the protein bar -- and put it in his backpack. Shivering a bit in the chill rain, I chatted with another parent waiting with his stepson for the yellow bus to come.

When it arrived, my 12 year old flew out of the car and raced across the streets with his buddies. After a bit more yakking about cell phone plans, I turned the Volvo back on and headed down the cul-de-sac for home.

I didn't get the whole story, Davila.

I tuned into the radio report just around the time that you came across your 16 year old son's body -- and then discovered the 19 year old body of another son.

In Juarez, it takes little to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Your kids were at a party, where it appears that a drug gang mistook a bunch of teenagers for dealers.

You called the Mexican version of 911. And it took two hours for the ambulances to arrive. The journalist told his listeners that doctors and ENT's don't want to be first on a scene -- in case the killing isn't quite over.

For a moment, just a moment, I thought I was there, too -- looking at the bruised bodies of children with you, Madonna of Sorrows.

For a minute, I imagined bringing up boys in a town where death lurks around each corner. Watching them make the right choices - and praying that somehow they might escape. Loving them with the helpless passion of a parent, knowing that you would do anything to protect them.

But I am not with you. I am here, tears cascading down my face.

I am amazed at your courage in calling the authorities and your willingness to speak up. And though I mourn your loss, I am aware that I cannot comprehend it.

How long, mi hermana?

All over this world, we hear the voice of the mother -- a voice heard in Zion, Rachel mourning for her children...because they are no more.