GOP senators left before his question and answer session began. He said he would've loved to debate them as to "why our country allows civilians to own military-style weapons."
An avid marathon runner, Begg says he is in this fight for the long haul.
"We're not going to be defined by defeat of the assault weapons bill," he says. "Change will come. There is no doubt. Things don't happen all in one year."
'We've become barbarians'
Rabbi Shaul Praver buzzes guests in when they arrive at his synagogue, nestled along a winding New England road with a gorgeous view of a wetland. Before December 14, anyone could freely walk in.
The rabbi helped lead the interfaith service attended by President Obama in the days after the massacre. He has since become a spiritual voice for many Newtowners.
"I don't know if there's any handbook on how to do it," he says. "I certainly didn't get anything in rabbinical school, saying, 'This is how you survive spree shootings.'"
His congregation lost Noah Pozner, a rambunctious 6-year-old who was "smart as a whip."
"We've seen the worst and the best," Praver says. "The worst was the crime and the best was the reaction to that crime. And that has been really incredible: the love, the dedication and the strength."
He has rallied clergy around the nation to lobby federal and state lawmakers for improved universal background checks and other gun control measures. He despises the National Rifle Association and its power to block gun control: "Who are these guys?" he says.
Born in Long Island, Praver was headed to India at age 21 to study meditation and the violin. En route, he stopped in Israel and remained there for 10 years, getting trained at orthodox yeshivas.
At 52, he's less conservative and more contemplative. He counsels his congregation by telling them that the heinous act of Adam Lanza doesn't mean God abandoned Newtown.
"Once we have free will, people can act the way that they want to act," he says. "The world is a jungle and things happen in the jungle. It doesn't mean that there is no God or no providence."
To him, the massacre is much larger than simply a gun-control issue; it's a sign of a society that has lost its way.
"We have a surplus of information, but we have a deficit of meaning," he says. "The truth is we are starved of spirituality. By that, I mean basic happiness. ...
"We've become gross in a sense. We've become barbarians. We don't have enough of that delicate wisdom literature: How to be honorable in a society."
The boogeyman with no name
The makeshift memorials no longer line the streets of Newtown. More than 64,000 teddy bears were sent here in the days and weeks after the shooting spree. The stuffed animals, angel figurines and candles were put in storage almost as quickly as the satellite news trucks left. The items haunted kids on school buses as they looked out windows.
Yet the scope of the tragedy remains omnipresent. Barricades still sit at the entrance to the Sandy Hook school. It will soon be torn down and a new school will be built on the property.
Before December 14, the popular bumper sticker was "Nicer in Newtown." Cars now zip through town with green ribbons on their bumpers in solidarity with those slain.
Young children still climb into their parents' beds, fearing the return of the boogeyman. Students and teachers at the temporary school for Sandy Hook survivors close doors gently. A loud slam could send them back to that awful day.
Newtowners are apt to cry in public at the Big Y, the Newtown General Store or the Edmond Town Hall, where there is a $2 movie theater and gym. The tears come without warning. Strangers offer comfort by wrapping their arms around each other. It's called The Newtown Hug.
Most residents cannot utter the name of the killer. Of the couple dozen people I met, only three referred to Adam Lanza by name. The high schooler, Sarah Clements, provided insight into that.
"Because it's such an unspeakable thing to even describe it, we can't really describe that person," she said. "So I think putting a name to that person adds, like, a human aspect that we don't understand and we can't figure out -- and we won't ever."
When the high school went into lockdown the morning of December 14, Sarah was in physics class. She and a friend crouched down and took cover. In the emergency room, Begg prepared for an onslaught of injuries.