Originally posted 04-19-2010. Reposted 04-19-2011.
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I’ll never be able to forget April 19, 1995 for as long as I live. I was a youth pastor in Oklahoma City at my first full-time church when I felt our entire building shake. We were hoping to start some renovation on our upstairs facilities soon, so I just thought someone had begun work already and dropped something really heavy. A few moments later phone calls started pouring in telling that a building had exploded downtown.
Everyone in our church office was immediately glued to the television watching footage that we could not believe. Chaos reigned that day and soon people on the radio and TV were calling for clergy members to head downtown and help. My Senior Pastor was ready to go and he said he wanted me to go with him.
We drove all over the place downtown, all the way to the Murrah building that had been blown to pieces. There were FBI jackets everywhere. We asked anyone and everyone where we should go. At one point we ended up at a temporary triage center established in a parking garage. It felt too awkward to pray for those who were in need of immediate medical care so we asked if there were somewhere else we could help. Finally someone said go to St. Anthony’s Hospital and care for the family members of the incoming victims.
At the Hospital we were escorted downstairs to a large windowless basement room. It was full of crying and worried-looking people. I was given a clergy badge and asked to mill around asking people how I could pray for them. It felt strange to say the least, but I got to work meeting people and praying for them.
I met a young couple who was worried about their 14 month old baby girl who was in the building’s daycare. They said her name was Jaci. I met a family of several blonde girls, a lovely blonde mother and her parents. They were worried about the lady’s husband and the girls’ dad, Paul Ice. I remember meeting the mother of baby Antonio. Her friend was with her holding her own baby while Antonio’s mother was weeping. The friend said to me, “My baby would have been in that daycare too except I was running late for work.” Then Antonio’s mom asked me, “Why did God let my baby get hurt in that building when I was responsible enough to be on time for work?”
I met many others that day, but these three stand out in my memory because all three of them showed up in the obituaries over the next few days. It was a frightening and formative day for me. I learned more about pastoral care and compassion in that one day than in the rest of my 20 years of ministry combined.
Next week I’m doing the 1/2 Marathon in Oklahoma City in honor of my son Taylor, who has Autism, and in memory of the following three victims of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building bombing in downtown Oklahoma City on April 19, 1995:
- Jaci Rae Coyne, 14 months, Moore
- Paul Douglas Ice, 42, Midwest City, senior special agent, Customs Service
- Antonio Ansara Cooper, 6 months