El Paso Strong: This Milspouse Heart

I didn’t want to look.

It was mid-Saturday morning, and I was supposed to be working on a sermon for church two Sundays away, but in a moment of final procrastination, I got on Facebook.

I shouldn’t have looked.

Some of my friends started sharing news stories about an “active shooter” in a local Walmart near our home here in El Paso and Fort Bliss.

“Surely it’s nothing. Probably some lunatic threatening someone for a ridiculous reason,” I thought to myself.

Later, I wished with all my heart that the previous thought was reality.

But it wasn’t.

I tried to keep writing, but my words were jumbled. I kept going back to the internet, looking, hoping, wishing that the situation was under control.

A pit crept into my stomach. Each time I looked, it got worse. And worse.

For a brief moment, I was encouraged when the “active shooter” was contained.

But that moment of hope was ever-so-short.

I kept looking. The internet and social media were plastered with “breaking headlines.”

“Active shooter in custody after open firing on El Paso Walmart near Cielo Vista mall. At least 18 people injured.” 

I didn’t want to look anymore. I couldn’t.

Facebook “asked” me if I was safe, so I marked myself as a very relieved and grateful yes. I closed out of the internet and tried to refocus on writing my message for church.

But still… I felt compelled to look. What was going on in my beloved town? Is everyone okay The “injuries” are just superficial, right?

A couple of hours later, the text messages continued to flood my phone.

“Are you guys okay? Have you been to that Walmart before? I heard a lot of people were killed.”

So I had to look. Again. And what I saw split my heart right in two.

Those 18 injuries turned out to be fatalities. Someone had killed 18 innocent people at Walmart.

I didn’t want to look any more.

I wanted to distance myself from this information, like I’d done so many times before when this happened in other places.

But I couldn’t. Not this time. I had looked, and now I realized that this was happening to us, in our town, 11 miles from our house. Less than a 15-minute drive.

Although that particular Walmart wasn’t “our” normal Walmart, it was still part of my West Texas story.

That was the place where I purchased a pink leotard for my daughter’s SKIES ballet classes last spring.

That was where I bought new green and black toddler size-6 shoes for my son when his feet hit a growth spurt earlier this summer.

That was the place that my mother-in-law and I bought lavender and a lily to plant in the backyard while she was here for spring break in March.

That was the place that my husband and I got groceries together on our final “day date” last fall before he deployed.

Cielo Vista mall was the place that my 6-year-old daughter and I go on “dates” for frozen yogurt and to “ride the escalator.”

The mall was where Aunt Rita and I took the kids to get their Build-A-Bears made so they could hear Daddy’s voice during deployment.

That was one of my places. And someone, with an evil heart, committed an act of violence that would forever scar that store, our community, and our city.

Some might say it’s ridiculous that as a military spouse I call El Paso “my city.” But right now, it is my city.

Over the last 15 months, this place has become home for me. I love it. I sometimes imagine retiring here. I relish the view from our backyard. I’ve made best friends here and found a wonderful church. My son learned to talk here. My daughter excelled in kindergarten here. We successfully weathered a nine-month deployment here.

This is home.

And now, there’s a gaping wound that will leave a scar so deep it will forever be noticed.

Later that evening, the death toll climbed to 20. I sat in the backyard, numb and angry. Why? Why? I imagined those families who went to Walmart for eggs and milk and back-to-school supplies who were now keeping vigil at a hospital bed, praying for a miracle…

…or trying to catch their breath as sobs wracked their bodies, barely processing the words as authorities informed them the sudden death of a loved one.

I didn’t know what to do or how to react. I wasn’t able to cry until we all got together at church the next afternoon. As a little church family, we prayed. We wept. We held each other. We grieved for our city, the victims, and their families.

In the days since, I’ve felt like I needed to write…something. I’m typically a woman of many words.

But the words wouldn’t come.

I watched as community members and peers eloquently and passionately shared their thoughts about the tragic event on social media. I watched the news stories continue to plaster the internet.

But I couldn’t write.

Writing would require me to face the reality of what happened. I didn’t want to look at that. It was scary. And painful. I wanted to lay on the floor in my closet with a blanket over my head.

I couldn’t look into my heart to draw out the words. Instead, I tried to look the other direction when a day later, two more lives were added to the death toll. Twenty-two. A number that I didn’t want to  consider.

I thought maybe I could use all my energy to focus on my task list or just “be present” with my family. Each time I stepped out into the backyard, I looked over the fence at all the prickly pear cactus and pondered if this was the year I would make jelly from the cactus “tuna” fruit.

I did everything I could to keep myself from looking at this tragedy head on.

Conversations with fellow El Pasoans have been awkward. We ask how we’re doing, and we respond with a tentative “okay.” Part of me thinks it foolish that this mass shooting should be impacting me like this. I wasn’t directly impacted, so why can’t I answer back with “I’m doing great!” or at least a typical “I’m fine.”

Because I’m not great. I’m not fine. I’m sad. I’m angry. I’m confused. And yes, I’m scared.

I’m sad for the lives lost…that an innocent moment in time has been altered forever.

I’m angry that someone acted out in this violent way. I’m angry that before the crime scene was cleared and bodies moved from the floor, political agendas had taken root.

I’m confused… Why here? Now? What if that had been us? My kids? My husband? Me buying eggs and milk? How can I protect my family in such an unknown world?

I’m scared. I needed to get groceries today. But I couldn’t go to my normal Walmart. I know that’s silly, since something like this could happen anywhere, but I just couldn’t do it (yet).

As I drove to the grocery store this morning, I couldn’t help but look around me. Every where in town were signs of both grief and unity. Billboards lit up: El Paso Strong. Marquee signs shared prayers and messages of courage. American flags—so many American flags—flew at half-staff in the West Texas breeze.

I kept looking. Each of these things reminded me of the tragedy that has permanently scarred our city. I remember some of the names and pictures of those shooting victims. I imagine the number of funerals that are being planned as I write this post.

But amid all of the grief, sorrow, anger, and confusion, something beautiful has blossomed. The town has come together to help those directly impacted by this incredible tragedy. Meals are being served to first responders and survivors. Blood banks are overrun with donations. Funeral costs are being waived completely.

A selfish, evil act that has permanently separated loved ones between life and death has simultaneously united a community. There is beauty slowly sprouting from the ashes.

This morning I woke, just as the sun was rising. I opened the curtains and looked to the east. The sunrise was incredible. Just peeking over the mountains, streams of orange, gold, and pink streaked the sky. It was a vision of hope.

I was glad I looked. If my eyes were still squeezed shut, facing the opposite direction as I’ve been tempted to do in days past, I would have missed it.

May our El Paso and Fort Bliss community continue to draw together. This milspouse heart of mine prays we can look this horrible act of violence straight in the face and declare that, while it has left a permanent scar, we will heal.

So go ahead. Take a look. El Paso might be shaken, but we are not broken.

We are #ElPasoStrong.