Right now, in America, there's a small group of people standing by the side of the road, watching a car fire. There are people inside. 

The first person in the group says: "We should put out the fire with water."

The second person says: "We should get the people out."

The third person says: "We're not qualified to do anything. We should call the police."

Because they can't agree, this small group of people stays by the side of the road, bickering and fighting, while the people in the car, right in front of them, burn to death.

I can't stop thinking about this, in the aftermath of yet another elementary school shooting. Nineteen-and-counting children dead, teachers dead, the shooter dead. And yet, the politicians stand there, bickering.

I'm the mother of a beautiful, innocent 2-year-old boy. When I heard the news, these are the questions I asked: Can I stomach sending my son to public school? How can I guarantee his safety? Can I handle homeschooling? Will he get the same level of education, socialization, friendship? 

And finally: How much can I get for my house, if we move to Canada? 

I don't think putting more guns in schools is the answer. I don't know how we could possibly keep those weapons out of the hands of people who shouldn't have them. But it's better than what we're doing right now; which is nothing.

I don't think placing a blanket ban on assault rifles will unilaterally keep dangerous people from getting them — or keep bad people from doing bad things with other weapons. But it's better than what we're doing right now; which is nothing. 

I don't think putting metal detectors in schools will deter a determined threat, and I don't think taxpayers will stomach the cost. But it's better than what we're doing right now; which is nothing.

For the past three decades, politicians on both sides of the aisle have expressed their sorrow, their frustration, their anger. "Why is this happening?" they want to know. "Why are we the only country where this happens?"

But I'm a parent now, and I don't want to hear your frustration. I get to be frustrated — I'm a mom in a country with elected officials who do nothing. I get to sound off my anger. I get to cry and sob and scream. But I didn't vote for you because I want to read your tweets. I voted for you because I thought you'd make it stop.

I'm one of the lucky ones — my child isn't in school yet, he's not old enough to ask questions, to understand an explanation. How old will he be, I wonder, when someone has to explain to him that a stranger might want to shoot him? How many nightmares will he have, I wonder, when he's old enough to understand a trip to the bathroom might be a death sentence?

I live less than a quarter-mile away from the nearest elementary school. I've always loved the idea of walking my child to school, the simplicity of it, the extra bonding time in those early years. I never imagined, until now, that I'd appreciate the security — the relief that comes with knowing I can run to him, anytime he needs me. That I could be there, even before police.

It's pathetic, isn't it? It's pathetic, and it isn't enough.

Because if the first person in that small group, watching a car fire, stepped forward and tried to put the fire out with water — and it didn't work — and then the second person stepped forward and tried to get the people out — and it didn't work — at least the third person already called for help. Maybe none of them were the best solution; maybe none of them were right. 

But the people in the car might not burn to death. They might live entire lives, with friendships and weddings and children of their own. 

Nineteen lives, at least, were cut unbearably short on Tuesday, May 24, 2022, never to have any of those things. 

Nineteen children were sent off to school, and didn't come home. Nineteen children will never see their 13th birthday. Nineteen children left their parents, their families, in pieces. And they're not in a better place, because they aren't where they should be — at home, in their mother's arms.

I'm holding my son close today. And I'm not a praying person, but I'm praying anyway. I'm praying someone, anyone, finally does something, anything, to protect him.

— Community Columnist Cassandra Lybrink is a reporter for The Holland Sentinel. She resides in Holland. Contact her at cassandranlybrink@gmail.com.