We sat on the thread-bare couch together and stared at the television screen. Most days Mr. Mom was watching football, but not today. Today there had been another school shooting. 

Mr. Mom looked at me. “I can’t do it, Ms. Sally. I can’t send my babies to school if this is what’s happening.”

He had tears running down his cheeks. It was the first time I had ever seen a man like this cry. 

My job as an At-Home Teacher took me to all sorts of places. I saw students in gated communities and students in mobile homes. I stepped over trash piles and petted dogs that I knew by name as I knocked on the door. I went to homes with goats and chickens roaming the yard, houses that were spotless and houses that had roofs falling in. They were all different, but had one thing in common – the parents loved their children and wanted them to get an education. 

Mr. Mom lived in a tiny home in what most people would call a “low-income” neighborhood. His wife worked every day while he stayed home with the kids. He was an ex-football player, was twice my size, and loved to yell at the TV as he re-watched football games all day. To be quite honest, he was someone who I would have been scared of if I passed him on the street.

But I had learned that Mr. Mom was a teddy bear of a man, who laughed easily and was always very respectful. We were as different as could be, and while I didn’t always agree with his parenting choices, he loved his babies more than anything.

Most days I worked on the floor with the children as he blared the television. The children and I would sing songs, read books, count, and draw. Sometimes the two cats and pit-bull puppy would join us on the floor and crawl into my lap. There was also a White Anaconda snake in an aquarium in the corner that I always kept my left eye on, just in case he decided he wanted to join our lessons too. 

“What am I sending my babies to, Ms. Sally? Why are they shooting our kids?” Mr. Mom’s big brown eyes were pleading with mine, begging me for an answer. 

But I had no answers for him. As I sat beside him on the couch, I felt the tears sting my own eyes as I tried to offer words of comfort. I stumbled my way through an explanation of how we as teachers will protect our students at any cost, how we are trained in active shooter drills, how we have hiding places for our children at school. But my words fell flat as I watched the tears continue to roll, so I quit talking. I sat back down on the floor with the children and we started singing a song, as their dad continued to cry silently on the couch. 

Every once in a while I would glance up at this giant of a man, who was dressed in pajama pants, a gold chain around his neck, and slippers. Tears rolled down his cheeks for the remainder of my lesson. At the end, as I was packing up my toys and heading out, he was gathering his children in his arms and squeezing them tight. 

I wanted to tell him that everything would be ok, that his kids would be safe at school, that no one would harm them there. But I didn’t say any of those things because I knew they were empty promises. There was nothing I could say that would make any of this go away. No words would give Mr. Mom the answer he needed. 

And now – many years later as I watch another tragic school shooting in Texas unfold, I  still have no answers to offer. I can tell you that we, as teachers, have plans in our heads of what we will do if a shooter comes into a classroom. I can tell you that we will shield our students until we die. I can tell you that our schools know and rehearse the threat of shooters in the building. 

But those words still fall flat, just like they did all those years ago with Mr. Mom. Because when we hit the bottom and we sob on the couch as we watch another school shooting, we just know it shouldn’t be happening. And no words will ever solve the problem. 

So maybe, instead of more words of what we can do better, or how the teachers are trained to take bullets, or what everyone in the country is doing wrong to cause the problem  – maybe we should all go sit on the couch of someone we would be scared of if we saw him on the street. Maybe we should get to know his life – pet his pit-bull puppy as the dog slobbers on our shoes and cuddle his children in our laps.

Maybe we should cry with the one who is different from us, sit down and shed tears with the one who we thought we hated. Maybe we should reach out to the one who has more money than us, or less money than us, or lives in scary neighborhoods, or drives fancy cars, or voted for the enemy, or played on the wrong team. 

Maybe, just maybe, if we reach out to those whose life is so very different from our own, if we stretch our hands outward instead of inward, if our hearts connect with a hurting world, we will not need words at all because our actions will shout louder than any words ever could.