Jorelys Rivera: Child of Georgia, Child of Our Heart

Caylee Anthony. JonBenet Ramsey. Zahra Baker.

The common thread among those children's names and so many others is that they were brutally murdered. Those are names we heard on television almost daily. Perhaps we scoured the Internet for news about them. Perhaps we prayed. Perhaps we donated to the reward funds. There is even a chance that we think about them without being prompted by the news or spotting a book about their short lives on a shelf.

As much as we care about those children and how painful it is to imagine what they endured, we are removed from it. They were not from Georgia. They were not one of ours. We didn't fear that the bogeyman was walking the streets of Cartersville or our neighboring Canton. Even though there are daily reminders that children go missing, that they are found dead, that no one is exempt from being victimized, it is possible we believed that this could never happen in our own back yard.

Until it did.

I won't go into detail about how her precious life ended. It's too disturbing, too unthinkable.

I will go into detail about what it is like to be a part of a community that rallied and stood together as one.

I attended Jorelys' viewing and funeral. Shock permeated my entire being upon seeing that there was an open casket and that I could gaze down at the little girl I knew only through the television but loved as my own. I cried. I cried nonstop and did not feel embarrassed or ashamed because all around me other people were crying as well. Big strapping men, everyday women, and teenagers joined me in my despair and made no apologies. We huddled together, whispering our prayers, and finding strength in one another. There were no strangers. We had all been brought together by the shocking revelation that none among us are safe, especially our children.

As I walked with the procession of mourners, candle in hand, I was able to feel more than the unflinching grip of misery or the stinging cold air. I felt a sense of pride in my fellow Georgians that sunk into me and filled the hole this unthinkable crime tore through my heart. We were one, we mourners, and nothing mattered except lighting up Canton in the hope that Jorelys would see the warm glow of our lights from Heaven and have a white Christmas. Not one among us was different. We were simply human beings leaning on one another and throwing our support behind Jorelys' family.

I saw firsthand the way Jorelys' mother fell into hysterics. She was mere feet from me and making sounds that no parent should have to make. It's unnatural for a parent to have to bury their child. As Jocelyn Rivera was basically carried through the crowd, I saw people reach out to touch her. I heard them call out their love for her and what is left of her family. I heard broken Spanish trying to assure her she was in our hearts, our souls. The people she passed, including me, sobbed aloud, reaching for one another, and clinging.

It is a bitter pill to swallow when an innocent life is lost. It is even more bitter when you know how much that child suffered at the hands of a madman.

But the bitter can be overcome the sweet taste of kindness, a reminder that for every evil human, there are thousands of wonderful ones.

Those wonderful humans became family as we watched white doves fly across the sky at Jorelys' funeral.

And I believe we all became a part of Jorelys' family because she adopted our hearts, taking a piece of it with her as her casket was carried away.

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