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Some events in life are so substantial that they leave a big hash mark on our personal timelines. They make it clear that there was a time “before” and a time “after.”
For most of us, those events are things like a high school graduation, marriage, the birth of child – or a tragedy, like the death of someone dear to us or an unimaginable event like the bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah Building in Oklahoma City.
If you could see my timeline, the bombing hash mark would be in bold, a clear division between feeling secure and understanding that terrible things really can happen, even to good people.
Who would have imagined that Oklahoma would be a target for terrorism? My home state isn’t huge or heavily populated, unless you count the cattle. We don’t have enough electoral votes to bother anyone. And we’re pretty well mannered. We still hold the door open for each other and pull over to the side of the road when a funeral procession passes to show our respect.
But 17 years ago today, we learned that we, too, are vulnerable. At 9:01 a.m., life was normal. By 9:03 a.m., my world had forever changed.
Since then, I’ve seen the Twin Towers fall. I’ve watched earthquakes shake entire countries, and I’ve witnessed a powerful tsunami, miners pulled from rubble and students running from gunmen.
Sometimes I’d like to rub my eyes and start over – go back to the time before my April 19th hash mark. But then I remember the strength and the goodness I have seen in others who have chosen to be brave and compassionate in the most difficult of times.
Rescue workers flooded Oklahoma and worked around the clock, giving us all they possibly could. Restaurants delivered free food to the site. Families and college students scoured their closets for raincoats, blankets and flashlights – and anything else the rescuers needed.
And I’ll never forget the First United Methodist Church, which sits next door to the Murrah property. The church, which had been used as a makeshift morgue in the hours after the bombing, hung signs where its beautiful stained glass windows had once been: “Our God reigns & we will remain.”
Vulnerable, yes. Defeated, no.
About Marketta Gregory
I never meant to be a columnist. I trained to be a newspaper reporter -- one who tried to her best to be objective. I covered religion for a few years and felt like it was the best job a curious woman like me could ever have. Every day I got to listen as people told me about the things that were most important to them, the things that were sacred. But the newspaper industry was changing and few papers could afford to have an army of speciality reporters. So, I moved to cover the suburbs where, as luck would have it, they have plenty of religion, too.
Eventually, children came into the picture. One by birth and another two months later by foster care/adoption. I struggled to chase breaking news and be home at a decent hour, so I made the move to what we journalists call the dark side: I took a job in public relations. (Don¹t worry. I work for a great non-profit, so it¹s not dark at all.)
When I gave my notice at the Rochester (N.Y.) Democrat and Chronicle, the executive editor asked me to consider writing a column on a freelance basis. She didn¹t want the newspaper to lose touch with its religious sources, and she still wanted consistent faith coverage. I was terrified. It took me about 10 months to get back to her with a solid plan and some sample columns.
And so it began, this journey of opening up my heart to strangers.
