My Wedgwood Story, part 1

There’s so much more to the story of the Wedgwood shooting than I could ever tell here. In fact, there’s so much more to just my own small part of the story.

I could share how my wife was walking from her car to the church when kids started running out of the church – some of them screaming, some of them covered in blood, and some of them numb in disbelief. I could share how my wife was within minutes of sitting next to one of our friends who was killed and how hard it was to comprehend just how close she came to being another victim.

I could share just how chaotic the hours were afterward at the church. Dozens of police officers worked the crime scene. Hundreds of people were scattered in the streets and a nearby school, frantically searching for friends and family and all the while trying to make sense of the senseless.

I could share how my wife and I picked up the family members of a victim at the airport in the middle of the night and how heart wrenching it was to watch and listen to them as they confirmed their family member was in fact dead.

I could share how incredibly intense the first church service was in the sanctuary. Blood-stained carpet and pews were removed. Bullet holes remained in the walls. Empty chairs with robes hanging over them were left in the choir loft. We prayed and sang in ways unlike any other service. We cried. A lot. And God met us there.

Even now, I find it hard to write about these events. Not so much because it brings difficult emotions to surface (though it does), but because I can’t focus enough. My mind wanders. Short movie clips play in my mind as I picture what happened in the days and weeks following. I re-live various events and conversations. And there is no coherent pattern to the emerging memories. There is no order. Just random, yet extraordinarily vivid memories. Yet through them all, I still feel a sense of peace. I remember how God loved us and cared for us during that time. And I remember how God spoke to me.

There has only been one time in my life when I sensed God speaking clearly and directly to me at a specific moment in time. I don’t know that I would call it an audible voice, but it was very close. For all the heartache those days brought, I’m thankful they provided me with at least one experience in my lifetime where God’s voice was clear as a bell.

I’ll share that story next…