Jodi Sandoval shares her loss and grief at Ohio rally for gun regulation

I've always noticed our American gun culture. I was raised in it. I was raising and have now lost a child to it. I've lived my life being bombarded with the message that owning a gun—its sole purpose to kill as efficiently as possible—is just a part of normal, everyday living.I made a conscious decision not to own firearms. I did not feel I could honestly tell my children that now is the time for the world to lay down its weapons, and in the famous lyrics of John Lennon, give peace a chance, while simultaneously showing them that I am willing to kill.I call him Buzzer sometimes. It's what his energy feels like—a buzz, a static, a deep mellow hum that promises excitement. His is an invisible tickle in the air before a storm blows in.Retrospect plays an endless slideshow in my mind. Flashes of my life come and go before me, my experience of Noah highlighted by the natural force of grief and deep mourning. Everything is seen with new eyes.Nearly eight months after the death of my 14-year-old son Noah, the world which I knew and where I lived with my five children has been leveled and utterly devastated. The reality of living in a post-Noah existence is overwhelming and surreal.I struggle daily to comprehend, and reconcile mind and heart to the fact that my child—the beautiful, bright, romantic, outrageous, courageous, wickedly humorous soul I know as Noah—is physically dead. View the list »
Jodi Sandoval speaks about her son's death and its devastating aftermath at the All-Ohio Rally for Sensible Gun Laws on February 23.

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Jodi Sandoval is a graphic artist who lives in Columbus, Ohio. Her 14-year-old son Noah McGuire was killed in an accidental shooting from an unsecured handgun on July 5, 2012.

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Sandoval spoke about her son's death and its devastating aftermath to over 200 supporters at the All-Ohio Rally for Sensible Gun Laws on February 23. The rally was sponsored by Moms Demand Action and the Ohio Coalition Against Gun Violence.

Sandoval's testimony accompanies the list of photos in this article (click View the list above or below).

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  • Nearly eight months after the death of my 14-year-old son Noah, the world which I knew and where I lived with my five children has been leveled and utterly devastated. The reality of living in a post-Noah existence is overwhelming and surreal.I struggle daily to comprehend, and reconcile mind and heart to the fact that my child—the beautiful, bright, romantic, outrageous, courageous, wickedly humorous soul I know as Noah—is physically dead. 
  • I call him Buzzer sometimes. It's what his energy feels like—a buzz, a static, a deep mellow hum that promises excitement. His is an invisible tickle in the air before a storm blows in.Retrospect plays an endless slideshow in my mind. Flashes of my life come and go before me, my experience of Noah highlighted by the natural force of grief and deep mourning. Everything is seen with new eyes.
  • I've always noticed our American gun culture. I was raised in it. I was raising and have now lost a child to it. I've lived my life being bombarded with the message that owning a gun—its sole purpose to kill as efficiently as possible—is just a part of normal, everyday living.I made a conscious decision not to own firearms. I did not feel I could honestly tell my children that now is the time for the world to lay down its weapons, and in the famous lyrics of John Lennon, give peace a chance, while simultaneously showing them that I am willing to kill.
  • I'm affected every single day—Internet, television, billboard advertisements, print. My thoughts and memories of Noah and his life are often interrupted by incessant reminders of the senseless way he died.I hear the sound of a shot being fired from somewhere in pop culture world, and I brace myself for the inevitable anguish that will follow, long after the echo has faded away. Only this is not pop culture world. This is reality. My son is dead. I will not audibly hear his voice say "Momma" ever again, and I cannot breathe.
  • His birth was swift and painless. I wept as I held him that day. The bright season of solstice, the new sun. Our new, miraculous baby son was upon me, a sweet boy with black hair that would later disappear into dark sandy brown. We named his body Noah Nicholas Matthew.
  • Suddenly I am transported to now by my five-year-old son Loki. Lilith, three, is right behind him. Loki wants to know and understand what happened to his brother. I want to understand. How do I protect these children from what I thought I could protect Noah from?On July 5, 2012, the earthly, naturally-electrifying energy of Noah McGuire ended its human body form by a single 45-caliber bullet wound to the chest, with a gun left lying in easy access to curious children searching for fire to set off, leftover bombs to burst in air, proof of the night that our flag was still there.
  • His friend pulled the trigger. I was told his death was swift and peaceful. I wept as I was forbidden to hold his body that day. The American season of freedom, with its stars and stripes, my son sacrificed to another man's so-called right to leave a loaded gun behind a TV, was upon me.The sweet boy with a head full of dark sandy-brown hair disappeared into a furnace at 1800 degrees, and I was handed a box of ashes with a decal on the top, in bold print stating Noah Nicholas Matthew.
  • I am here today, taking a pause from the painful, yet hauntingly beautiful process of remembering Noah's mortality, to ask you to please consider the sanctity of human life, and honor and revere the natural curiosity of the spirit of youth by keeping your firearms stored safely and responsibly away from children, in this modern culture saturated by the glorification of fear and violence, a near constant and trivial regard for the reality and finality of death.Please actively support common-sense measures that demand adult firearm responsibility.
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Steve Palm-Houser is actively involved in social justice work and interfaith cooperation, both in his local community and nationally. He can be reached at  steve.palmhouser@gmail.com.

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