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House call of the heart

So I'm knocking out a few thoughts here on the Blob the other day about the Newtown, Conn., slaughter and how unimaginable it was (even though nothing of its ilk seems unimaginable in this country anymore), and how I was watching the Miami Heat players, their kids in tow, share a moment of silence before their game Saturday night.

It didn't move me the way it was clearly intended to, I wrote. I felt manipulated instead. I felt the Heat kids were being manipulated.

And then I wrote about all the moments of silence planned for the NFL games on Sunday, and how that didn't feel genuine to me, either. It didn't feel anything like the way it felt at the Saint Francis football game four days after 9/11, or that first game in Yankee Stadium after the planes hit the towers.

It felt more like P.R. to me. And I acknowledged that, yes, maybe that was because what happened in that Connecticut elementary school on Friday -- 20 dead kids, some of them only a couple of years removed from the gentle I-like-you, you-like-me assurances of Barney and Friends -- was such an awful and incomprehensible shattering of innocence that I was still trying to get my head around it.

And so, in the end, I never posted what I wrote. I recognized that it was probably unfair and lacking in perspective, that I was still far too sad and angry and utterly disgusted with the cowards and fools who unwittingly abetted, and will continue to abet, human monsters like Adam Lanza, butcher of children.

I'm glad I held off. Because now I read about Giants wide receiver Victor Cruz and the stricken family of poor doomed Jack Pinto, and it does feel genuine to me, and spontaneous, and intensely, movingly human.

And thank God for that.

Ben Smith's blog.