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He was standing at the counter when I joined the line at Wal-Mart’s customer service. I recognized him immediately. At easily 6′ 4′ and maybe 300 lbs he was hard to miss. He had grown some since I’d last seen him in high school English class. His face had lost its soft contours and was covered in stubble. He had on the familiar ball cap and mud caked boots. With a different set of life circumstances he had the potential to be handsome, a real charmer. But that’s not how life had turned out for him.

We met eyes immediately. I smiled and said hi. He nodded in that old-fashioned country way. His eyes softened in recognition. I turned to my business with customer service. His eyes didn’t seem to leave me the whole time.

When I was done he was still there, standing behind a mountain of a man who must be his father. I smiled at him again and he stepped forward. “You don’t remember me do you, Ms. Gambill?” He asked me.

“Yes, I do, Luke.* How are you?”

He grinned and his massive arms wrapped around me. “I’m good,” he said hesitantly. I knew it wasn’t true. I knew by the edgy glances he shot toward the backside of the mountain at the counter, home wasn’t any better than it had been before.

“Are you still in school?” I asked him.

I had been a parapro in his class last year. He had been sixteen then. He hated school. He hated his teacher. I can’t say I blamed him, she didn’t care for him much either. Mostly he hated life. I don’t know why but he decided he liked me. He wouldn’t do anything for anybody, except occasionally me. A couple of times I’d thought I was going to get caught in one of his rages and have my nose broken. School felt like prison to him. He wasn’t particularly good at it, and he certainly didn’t understand its nuances. School wasn’t a world of opportunities, it was an agony he was forced to endure.

“I’m bein’ taken out, gonna be homeschooled,” he replied to my question.

“That’s good, I’m glad.” I paused. “I work with little kids now, first and second graders,” I told him.

“High school too much for ya’ weren’t it?” He grinned.

“It was a bit intense,” I smiled, “too stressful.” I felt guilty I’d left him there without an ally, for something more manageable.

I turned to go. I didn’t really want to interact with his dad if I could help it, and the middle of Wal-Mart wasn’t the place for a heart to heart. Although I ached to sit down with him and have a good conversation. “I think about you often, Luke.” I touched his arm.

“Take care,” he offered back.

His mother had left him when he was little, but not until she had abused him during drug induced stupors. She’d broken his heart. He half admired, half feared his daddy – who was also harsh and wrathful. His little sister had been taken away. Anger was his default setting.

On the occasions I’d waited with him for disciplinary issues the despair had poured out. In those moments I’d seized the opportunity to share gospel love. I told the story of the cross and the value it put on his life. He listened. He wanted to believe, but God felt remote and just as vengeful as his own daddy. He could barely read, but insisted on using King James when I offered him a bible. Even though he couldn’t believe God’s love he knew I cared about him. It was the best I could do. It wasn’t enough but it was all I had.

Why am I sharing this story? Because as hundreds of kids have walked out of schools this week, protesting in order to promote change in gun laws and school safety, I find it interesting that I just so happened to run into Luke.

He’s the poster child of the isolated, angry youngster with easy access to weapons. I was kind to Luke, but I feared him. He was, and is, a bomb waiting to go off. And I have massive doubts that any random act of kindness is going to diffuse that bomb.

Why is Luke angry? Why is he a threat to others? Because he, like thousands of others in our nation, has been raised in a violent, toxic environment with an angry, abusive parent. Because he’s been abandoned. Because he is failing at school and feels like he’s failing at life. Because he feels out of control.

I care about Luke, deeply. I’ve prayed for him regularly. But I’d still feel better if he walked through a metal detector into school everyday instead of unguarded, unsecured doors. When I worked with him it was highly stressful to think that one word, one bad encounter could change everything.

Kids like Luke have low thresholds. After years of pain their tipping point doesn’t look like yours or mine. He needs WAY more than a few kind words from peers or teachers. He needs a stable home life, academic intervention, and counseling.

When a kid is picked on and eventually cracks it’s usually been a long journey, with lots of baggage, that’s gotten them to the breaking point. Our kids should be kind, but they can’t bear the burden of someone’s mental health on their shoulders. It’s too much.

Kindness is always in order, and sometimes so is social action. Appropriate pressure may need to be applied to get the ball of change rolling.

My kid’s middle school encouraged them to engage in 17 random acts of kindness on March 14th, instead of letting them protest. I understand the sentiment. It’s a great way to remember the 17 who lost their lives just a month ago. But we need to be careful not to tell kids to just be nice and everything will work out. They can, and should, think for themselves and use their voice. Helplessness isn’t a healthy message to send our youth. Kids are impressionable and will make mistakes, but a lot of them are smarter than we think and have good ideas. We should let them join the conversation of school safety and gun control. We should let them join the conversation on a lot of things.

Kids feeling a sense of insecurity at school want to be taken seriously. Kids should be friendlier at school, but is it going to keep them from getting shot? It’s reasonable that they request metal detectors, more security officers, and stricter gun laws to combat the problem. And as adults we should be looking after the Luke’s among us as best we can. Mentoring, foster care, adoption, supporting teen moms, and setting the example of kindness are just a few things we can do to relieve some of the pressure.

Working toward a gentler society is a noble and practical goal. But I’ve met human nature. There will be a next time. Fortunately for us there will also be a next generation. Let’s pull out a chair and give them a seat at the table.

*Name changed  for privacy.