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That Was Me

By Rick Tester

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Autumn leaves skipped across sleepy grass and cold sidewalks.
An old minivan parked across the street from Hope Chapel, rust chewing through the wells, a cracked windshield and expired plates.
The man inside glared at the loaded weapon on the passenger seat. He thought of the decisions he'd made in his life that led him to where he was. To what he was about to do.
Middleberry had always been a quiet New England town in central Vermont.
Until today.
Pastor John Gardezi stood inside the entrance to his church dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. John didn't believe in getting all dressed up to worship the Lord. He knew God would take us all just as we are. John was in his thirties and had been leading Hope Chapel for three years with his wife, Karla, and their two little girls.
Karla stood next to John. She had that “girl next door” look about her. Hated to wear make up. Didn’t own a curling iron. A smile that was always genuine.
Abigail was nine years old, long dark hair and her mother's bright hazel eyes. She loved Jesus with all her heart. Finally able to sit and have conversations with her dad about the Bible and Jesus. She stood next to her father wearing a yellow Sunday dress she had picked out herself. She’d smile up at the people as they said “good morning.”
Kristen, her younger sister, had been taken to her Sunday School class where she was enjoying pop tarts with her friends.
He looked through grimy windows with angry eyes and trembling hands. The parking lot and sidewalks were empty. Service would begin in ten minutes. He grabbed his gun, and one spare clip. It would be all the time he would have. Before he was stopped.
He was in his fifties. With two bad knees, a dislocated hip that never healed correctly, and a fused right ankle, he limped across the street and up to the entrance.
John looked at Abigail. “You can go take your seat now, Abby.”
“Just a few more minutes, Dad. Please?”
John smiled, gave her a wink. “Okay.”
The man entered, looked right, and fired several rounds. He dropped the clip, loaded the second, and managed three more rounds to his left before two men in the congregation stopped him.
In less than a minute, it was over.
Abby had hit the floor just before a bullet hit her father in the leg. The other two bullets that hit John, took his life.
Screams of shock and surprise turned to cries for help. Some people ran out emergency exits, others through the front doors without looking to see what had happened.
Don't look. Just run.
A few others cried for help, kneeling by friends and loved ones. Praying for things they never thought they’d ever have to pray for.
Abby lay there, unconscious, completely unaware that her father was among the eight people who had lost their lives that morning. She never saw her parents on the floor next to her. She never saw the man that took her father from her.
Most people, when they look back on this day, will only see where God wasn’t.

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