My sons usually call me when they are on their way somewhere – to the gym, to home from church, from work to home. This morning, Second Son called as he was walking from his apartment to work – work on the Virginia Tech campus.

We chatted about this and that – how his novel is going, what movies he’d seen, his living plans once his lease runs out in a few weeks. And then he sighed.

"Well, there’s Norris Hall," he said.

I asked if it had police tape around it still.

"Oh, they built a fence," he said. "And there’s a big debate about what to do with the building."

So we talked about that. We talked about the students who had, contrary to the claims of various know-nothing pundits, fought back, students like ROTC cadet Matthew LaPorte who had been shot  trying to take Cho down. He said one of the maintenance men, a regular at David’s place of business, had been shot at, but been missed. He spoke of one of his co-worker’s relations, a police officer early on the scene, who was still not sleeping because of what he saw. And he told me this:

As the securing and examination of the crime scenes began in the afternoon and went on late into the night, one sound resounded through the heavy sad silence of the classrooms.

Cell phones.

Cell phones ringing, sounding, echoing against the walls. But cell phones that could not be  answered because it was still a crime scene and nothing could be moved quite yet, nothing could be touched. And on the other end of those rings, parents and friends, dialing again and again, fearful, hearts slowly breaking, dialing one more time. Into silence.

Our news cycles move so fast now, so incredibly, terribly fast. All of that was just a month ago – April 16. One month. That’s all. It filled the news for a few days, but now the news has moved on to something else, back to other things.

But hundreds have not.

You know, when I was younger – actually not much younger – the life of a contemplative was unimaginable to me. How, I wondered, could anyone pray all day? What could keep you down on your knees so much? How could you think of enough to pray for?

Slowly, I’m beginning to figure it out. And now I think there are not enough hours in the day or night. Not nearly enough.  Trusting that the prayers rise out of the grief, making their way, not into the air where they cannot be answered, but into the waiting embrace of Life and Love Eternal.