Four months ago, when the news reached me in London about the Aurora, Colorado shooting, I was greatly angered. As a lover of all things comic books, and an addict of Super Hero movies, this tragedy resonated with me more so than any other mass shooting that had preceded it in my life. The idea that an arena others and I loved so much could be transformed into a stage of evil—I found it hard to grapple with emotionally and spiritually.

Later, when I was sitting in the lobby of London’s largest movie theater, waiting to go in to see The Dark Knight Rises itself, I tried to pierce through my many thoughts. Moving to an empty seat in the back of the dark lobby, I sat down and tapped out on my iPad a note that would never be published. Via the written word, I hoped to breathe life into the fury and confusion I felt at that time. Today, I wish I could say that my tapping fingers brought me to realize some sort of higher truth—that I achieved at least a modicum of solace. But I’m afraid that stating such a claim would simply be a lie. Beyond the uncomforting fact that “evil exists in this world,” I have found no encompassing consolation or calming rationalization for the needless deaths of those twelve individuals—or for that matter those who were killed in Wisconsin, Oregon, and Kansas. I am not sure I ever will.

Upon reading the first story of the Newtown, Connecticut shooting that came up on my Facebook newsfeed today, I said a prayer to God in heaven asking comfort for the families, Americans, and all those who grieved. Continuing on, however, I was thrown from my usual formality when engaging in such conversation with my Lord. Carried away in very ineloquent but passionate utterances, I proceeded to interject cries of disbelief about humanity. I lamented—and quite irately so. I decried that this evil might still exist in a society that could surely prevent it. That humanity could let such a tragedy occur. That our world, as we know it, could somehow turn the heart of that gunmen black as coal.

I continued reading the news story. I read that a young boy was carried out of his classroom by a police officer, bleeding from gunshot wounds. I read that Kindergartners, busy learning in their reading groups, had to run and hide in bathrooms from the “hammering” that their teachers told them was occurring—realizing (or maybe not realizing) that the “hammering” was really discharged bullets and the “hammer” was really a gun, wielded by yet another psycho who managed to get his finger around a trigger. I am not someone usually prone to displays of physical sentiment, but I found myself crying loudly at the end of that article. Picturing in my mind, as I couldn’t help but do, the vicious murder of 20 young children in such a sacred space as a school building—I found it overwhelming. “I don’t want to die. I just want Christmas,” were the words of one girl lucky enough to survive with the help of a heroine teacher. Surely there are no words that could give voice to the senselessness of such a cruel wickedness, and thus impede the flow of tears dropping from the eyes of citizens across this world.

The debate has already surfaced about gun control laws. It will surely continue in the coming days. I hope to be a part of it. I wholeheartedly support re-examining the situation in which our country finds itself, where an Aurora, an Oak Creek, a Portland, a Kansas City, and now a Newtown must be added to a long string of senseless death. If you would like to discuss gun control, sign me up for that discussion.

But it is the painful emotions, and not the politics, that resonates with me now. And as someone who wrote columns routinely in high school and does so now in college, I like to think that I know, at least a little, how to give life to emotions and pain via words. I feel it is my job to do so—to discover how I might represent the emotions of my readership and myself. To give meaning to what we might have previously felt but never expressed. To say something of value or to clarify where murkiness exists. This is my job, and I oftentimes take pride in doing it.

Yet I worry I must fail in my job now. There are no words I could type or ideas I could express that could cut through the bloody murkiness brought upon the people of Newtown. There is no grand solace to be found in this event. Nothing that can erase the ache felt in the hearts of the fallen children’s’ parents, and the hearts of Americans across the country.

At times like these, all I can do is pray and hope. Pray that peace might be granted to those harmed. Hope that one day we might find meaning in this tragedy that has been so heinously exacted upon the people of Newtown. It’s not much I know. But it's all I can offer. Today, let’s endeavor to pray and hope together. Tomorrow, let us dream our prayers and hopes come true.