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Good morning,

鈥楳ummy, can children die?鈥�

The words came from my then five-year-old who was sitting at the back of the car as I drove him home from school.鈥疘鈥檇 long dreaded the question 鈥� but I still wasn鈥檛 prepared for it. I winced.鈥痀es.鈥疉nd knew in that moment that something of his innocence had been taken away.

Like every mother, I鈥檇 wanted not only to keep him safe from physical harm, but also to protect him鈥� from the knowledge of heartbreak and pain.

I know I began to see the world differently when as a child I realised that such a horror was possible. Death is something we must all wrestle with, but the death of a child is a tragic upending of the order of things. Children killed in violent ways by human hands: unthinkable.

That such a horror can happen in a place like Southport, as it did yesterday? Unbearable. The incongruence of the terrible scenes taking place at a Taylor Swift dance party for children at the start of the summer holidays makes it even harder to fathom.

There are no easy answers to why such terrible things take place; no ways to make it better. For the parents of the children that died yesterday in the horrific attack, for those who were injured and will forever be traumatised by what took place, pat answers 鈥� religious or otherwise - just won鈥檛 do..

There is no word in the English language for a parent whose child has died. Widows and widowers鈥痟ave lost their spouses,鈥痮rphans have lost their parents. But a parent whose child has died 鈥� whether in鈥� Southport or Israel or鈥� Gaza or Ukraine鈥� 鈥� it鈥檚 too painful for us to even name.

In the Massacre of the Innocents 鈥� the鈥痗hildren killed by King Herod after the鈥� birth of Jesus 鈥� the gospel of Matthew alludes to an Old Testament passage that reads:

鈥淎 voice is heard in Ramah,
鈥�鈥�鈥�鈥痺eeping and great mourning,
Rachel鈥痺eeping for her children
鈥�鈥�鈥�鈥痑nd refusing to be comforted,
鈥�鈥�鈥�鈥痓ecause they are no more.鈥�

I鈥檝e long found this passage haunting because it paints a vivid picture of my worst nightmare. For the families in Southport, the pain of losing a child is no longer a nightmare, but a living and waking reality.

In wrestling with such tragedy, the Biblical writers present us with images of a God who steps in to our worst days, the pain of our nightmares, and sits in solidarity with those who find themselves in the valley of the shadow of death. And with those who mourn. 鈥楪od is near to the broken-hearted,鈥� it says in the book of Psalms.

The days of seeking answers about what happened in Southport will come. But now is too soon. The grief is too raw. Maybe today is the day we too hear the cries of those whose hearts are broken. Maybe that鈥檚 all we can do.

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