I haven't watched even a minute of the George Zimmerman trial. My husband (who has a law degree, although he never practiced) has watched enough for both of us. I knew when I went to bed last night that the jury was still deliberating.
When something newsworthy or even (sometimes) just mildly interesting happens, I'll find a handwritten note on my laptop when I wake up. (He stays up later than I do.) I knew when I saw one this morning that it would be the verdict. I read it, more than half an hour ago as I sit here now, and I still feel like I've been punched in the gut.
This is America, where white men with guns rule. It's like the wild, wild west all over again.
Am I surprised? A bit. But honestly? Not much. It would be easy to blame it on Florida justice – it's not difficult to come up with at least a couple recent decisions out of the Sunshine State that seemed to be totally wrong. (Casey Anthony and the 2004 Presidential election come immediately to mind.)
More than likely it just comes down to this: The prosecution didn't prove its case.
At any rate, I'm sick and disheartened and angry and sad.
My husband attends church regularly; I don't. My spiritual life is rich and full; I don't feel the need to sit in community with others at a specific hour of the week. I pray a lot, mostly prayers of thanks, because I have a lot for which to be grateful.
I will, however, be in a church later today, at a special healing service for a minister who serves the church my husband attends. I will spend the hours from now until the service walking on my road and weeding my garden and thinking about a boy armed with Skittles and a man carrying a gun he shouldn't have had.
And when I get to church, I'll be praying for the healing of America.
Because we are most surely broken.