There are books we enjoy.

There are books we learn from.

And then there are books that quietly become part of who we are.

One of those books for me is She Said Yes.

I first read it years ago. It’s based on the Columbine High School shooting, and while there have been many books I’ve forgotten over the years, this isn’t one of them.

I don’t revisit it because I enjoy reading about tragedy.

I revisit it because it reminds me that behind every headline are real people.

Real families.

Real friendships.

Real dreams.

I was still in school when Columbine happened. I don’t remember ever being afraid to go to school afterward, but I do remember how deeply that story settled into my heart.

Back then, we practiced fire drills.

Tornado drills.

Depending on where you lived, maybe earthquake drills.

Today, many children practice active shooter drills.

Just writing those words feels heavy.

Then I became a mom.

And something changed.

Every time I hear about another school shooting, my mind doesn’t stay on the headlines for very long.

It goes to the parents.

I think about the phone call no parent ever wants to receive.

I think about the birthdays that will never be celebrated.

The Christmas mornings with an empty chair around the table.

The graduations that never happen.

The weddings parents dreamed of attending but never will.

The grandchildren they’ll never hold.

Those are the things that break my heart.

Maybe it’s because motherhood changes you.

Or maybe it’s because stories like She Said Yes taught me years ago that these aren’t just names on a news broadcast.

They’re someone’s child.

For our family, moments like these became one of many conversations that eventually led us toward homeschooling. It wasn’t the only reason, and it certainly wasn’t driven by fear alone. It was simply one piece of a much larger conversation about what we believed was best for our family.

The truth is, though, homeschooling doesn’t remove every danger.

Neither does private school.

Neither does public school.

As parents, we eventually come face to face with something we don’t like to admit.

We cannot control tomorrow.

We aren’t promised tomorrow.

None of us are.

If the Lord allows, we may have about eighteen summers with our children before they begin building lives of their own.

Eighteen Christmas mornings.

Eighteen birthdays under our roof.

Eighteen years of bedtime stories, family vacations, scraped knees, inside jokes, and ordinary Tuesday afternoons that don’t seem important until they’re memories.

But none of us are promised all eighteen.

That realization could leave me living in fear.

Instead, it reminds me to live with gratitude.

To hug my girls a little tighter.

To be present when they’re telling me about their day.

To put my phone down a little more often.

To thank God for another ordinary Tuesday.

Most of all, it reminds me that my daughters were never truly mine to keep.

They were entrusted to me for a season by the One who loves them even more than I do.

That doesn’t erase the sadness I feel when another tragedy makes the news.

It doesn’t answer every question.

But it does remind me where to place the fears I was never meant to carry alone.

Perhaps that’s why this book has stayed with me all these years.

Not because it told a heartbreaking story.

But because it taught me to see the people behind the headlines.

And every time I look at my girls, I’m reminded that every ordinary day is a gift.