I was raised in a home where we had family dinners every night. We talked. We fought. We laughed. And, yes, my brothers and I were disciplined. I don’t recall ever having a conversation predicated on fear.

As I sat last week contemplating my column topic, I couldn’t take pen to paper composing anything about the horrific mass shooting in a Florida school that week. It was too raw. It was made all too real by the impassioned stories told by those present. I was amazed by the articulate young people able to communicate so bravely, express so meaningfully what they had been through and how they felt about it. I’m sure, like many of you, I realized that my tears were flowing as I sat watching and listening to them.

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