Two mornings ago, I sat in my leather chair covered with my favorite throw and watched the morning news. Tears streamed down my cheeks, and I couldn't quite figure out why the story of a gunned down police officer struck me with such force. We have seen so many shootings, my emotions had sadly become somewhat numbed to an immediate, emotional response to the killing of the day, week or month.
The news story was about forty-two year old Master Sargent, Debra Clayton, who was shot and later died from her wounds in a Walmart parking lot. The call went in to the department at 7:17. She had been with the department 17 years, and she died in 2017, doing a job she appeared to have loved, and doing it with passion for her work and the people she worked with and for, the mark of a true public servant. I feel, somehow, I owe her tribute, and I am welling up again as I write this. Rest in peace, Debra Clayton.
My favorite number is and has always been, 17.
The news story was about forty-two year old Master Sargent, Debra Clayton, who was shot and later died from her wounds in a Walmart parking lot. The call went in to the department at 7:17. She had been with the department 17 years, and she died in 2017, doing a job she appeared to have loved, and doing it with passion for her work and the people she worked with and for, the mark of a true public servant. I feel, somehow, I owe her tribute, and I am welling up again as I write this. Rest in peace, Debra Clayton.
My favorite number is and has always been, 17.
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