Three. The number of shootings in our neighborhood in the last month.
Three. The number of students inside the school room pierced by a stray bullet.
Three. The number of middle school girls I spend time with on Thursday evenings.
Three. The number of times I run each week, giving me ample opportunity to wonder and question and grow soreness in my aging knees.
Questions whirl in my head like a tornado. Doubts creep in like the ants feasting on our dining room floor. Feelings of overwhelmedness hang on me like a tired three-year-old.