"Somebody's Child"

It was as if someone had slapped me in the face. There was a news break in the middle of a routine Saturday night rerun of "Law and Order".

Three young kids (12, 13, and 15) had been standing on the street corner of a major road here in our increasingly violent city. It had been sometime between eight-thirty and nine o'clock on Friday night. They were just "hanging out" -- talking -- enjoying the nice evening.

Oh, yes, and they happened to be African-American. They were young Black kids, with all of life ahead of them.

One report stated that a bicyclist rode by, someone who observers thought might have been in his late teens or early twenties. Others said a fight was taking place nearby, and, again, some random person walked by these kids.

This would be a normal scene for a street corner on a late summer's night in Rochester, New York.

The most terrifying part of what occurred next is that it has become an ever more frequent report of a nightmare in the community of which I am a part.

The man shot all three kids. One boy was shot in the leg. The second boy was shot in the back and has needed two surgeries so far.

That last child -- the twelve year old girl-- well, this one was unspeakable, so much so that the reporter was having difficulty. He had shot her in the face, and she was in critical condition.

The station showed a recent photo of this lovely young woman with a big, beautiful smile.

How could anyone do this? I sat on the couch, not really watching the television at all, with tears streaming down my face. Then I just sobbed.

When the eleven o'clock news came on a few minutes later, they interviewed a teenager who had been there. The news station reported that police were following any leads they could to try to track this man down. And the girl was still in critical condition.

I kept thinking of that smiling girl in the photo. How could a human being shoot another person in the face?

There was a pause in the reporting, and then the newsperson, once again having to work to hold back tears, told us that this young girl had just died. 11:15 p.m. It was about that time that another inner city family in my hometown lost a child.

Her name was Camry. The three kids had been headed to church.

All I could think of was the song I wrote in September of 2005, after another news report had left me stunned. That day a fifteen year old inner city boy was shot while walking home from the neighborhood community center. He had gone for tutoring after school and took a shortcut across the open lot nearby. His death was the fifth one in three months, all of kids under the age of sixteen.

There are no words to the sadness and the outrage I feel. I have been on disability for eighteen and a half years, but I am always a pastor and always a teacher. I care deeply about the welfare of those with whom I go through life.

I use public transportation. I have been down this bus route many times. I have probably sat across from these three friends on one of those trips.

Once more, I am determined to finish the recording and mixing of this song. I want to send it to the news stations and the mayor and the inner city churches. I hope it might bring healing to someone, somewhere.

SOMEBODY'S CHILD (c) 2006 Mary Lou Worster Anderson

Now the hours of light grow shorter each day,
We glimpse the changes of fall.
But the darkness which around us grows
Is not from the season at all.

And I cry each night, and I pray each day,
For our streets have become so wild.
And every tear that runs down my face
Is for somebody's darling, somebody's child.

Sadness like a blanket weighs down,
I can barely watch news any more.
I don't have to look around the globe
To find a city at war.

And I cry each night, and I pray each day,
For our streets have become so wild.
And every tear that runs down my face
Is for somebody's darling, somebody's child.

On my street, I see each bright young face:
The laughter, the dreams, and the smiles.
Who will they be? What will they become
As they travel life's journeys and miles.

And I cry each night, and I pray each day,
For our streets have become so wild.
And every tear that runs down my face
Is for somebody's darling, somebody's child.

And I cry each night, and I pray each day,
For our streets have become so wild.
And every tear that runs down my face
Is for somebody's darling, somebody's child --

Is for EVERYONE'S DARLING, EVERYONE'S CHILD.