I Don’t Know How

The rain pounded on the roof of my live truck. It was the first time in 12 days that I had time to think — to process what has happened in my city.

A man was killed by police.

I stood in the midst of protests, the likes of which I never thought I would see in my town. I watched angry citizens taunt and curse police in full riot gear. I watched police force people off the streets.

I stood between police and protesters, my camera in hand and live unit on my back, broadcasting images of police snatching people who would not comply off the streets, while others pleaded for calm and peace.

I watched peaceful protests devolve into brick-throwing right outside my television station.

I saw my community mourn and bury a man who did not have to die.

And today, I was shaken from my bed by a phone call. Officers shot.

I watched police officers swallow their pain, their anger, their fear, and go to work protecting the public.

I watched children deliver flowers, parents bring food and drinks in gratitude and support.

And as I sat inside my live truck, watching the rain blur the scenes playing out in front of me, I tried to pray.

I couldn’t.

I wanted to pray for the officers, their families, all of our police, deputies, and troopers, my community, my state, my family, my news colleagues. For peace, for safety, for healing.

I didn’t know how.

If you can spare one, Baton Rouge could use a prayer.

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About Rick

Writer, photographer, thinker of deep thought . . . too bad I only write about shallow ones.
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