More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of.
~Alfred, Lord Tennyson
I was in Charleston, South Carolina, on the night of the infamous attack at Mother Emanuel A.M.E. Church in June 2015. My husband and I had just arrived at our hotel when the story came on the news: Bible study becomes a bloodbath as an unknown white gunman mows down African American worshipers who had welcomed him into their circle. It seemed impossible that such a horrific event could occur here, in Charleston, a place routinely lauded as one of the friendliest cities in America. We stayed up long into the night watching the reports, trying to make sense of the madness.
The following morning, I had to go out for groceries. Everyone in the store was shuffling around in a fog, still in shock. We ambled about like robots, mechanically going through the motions of filling carts and lining up to pay for purchases.
I had picked up a few basics and was standing at the register when a young black man walked up to my cashier — who was also African American — and gave her a gentle hug. He stood back and took a folded newspaper from under his arm, opening it to reveal the glaring headline: “Church Attack Kills Nine.”
“One of the victims is my neighbor’s cousin,” the man said solemnly. “And Pastor Pinckney is gone, too.” He shook his head and put down the paper. Then the two resumed their silent embrace.
I glanced at the woman behind me. We were both white, and I think we instinctively felt some shame and guilt at our racial commonality — however incidental — with the gunman. I wanted to say something, but couldn’t think of anything that wouldn’t come off as insensitive, or worse, patronizing. The lady behind me also seemed to be struggling with the awkwardness and angst of the situation.
But before either of us could muster a comment, the cashier stepped away from the distraught man and walked over to where we stood.
“We need to pray,” she said, looking from her friend to the two of us in line. “Let’s join hands and ask Jesus for a blessing.”
Without another word, we all reached out our hands and formed a circle — four strangers of various races, ages, faiths, and economic statuses. (I’m not even sure, really, because we knew literally nothing about one another.) And we prayed there, in the checkout line of a Charleston grocery store, for the victims, for their families, and for the police, who had to tell mothers and fathers and children and friends that their loved ones were gone and then risk their own safety apprehending the murderer. We also prayed for Charleston, the “Holy City,” and for cities everywhere that suffered such heinous events — that this might be the last.
“And Lord, we ask your grace be upon the killer, too,” she said at the end. “And on his family. This is a terrible thing he’s done; please turn his heart back to you, and give his family some measure of peace. Amen.”
That evening, candlelight vigils were held along Calhoun Street, and the gates of Mother Emanuel A.M.E. Church were adorned with white satin bows. By Friday, the suspect had been arrested (I will not use his name; he does not deserve to be memorialized within these pages), and he appeared in court for a bond hearing. Family members of his victims came, too — not to demand blood, but to forgive him and encourage him to repent. “May God have mercy on you,” said a woman who survived the massacre but lost her son to the very gunman she was now blessing. Another explained she would respond to his violence with compassion, so “hate won’t win.”
In the days that followed, South Carolina’s Governor Nikki Haley removed the Confederate flag (a symbol the killer used as his personal emblem) from the State Capitol. An outpouring of love and support swept over Charleston from around the country. President Obama came to the Holy City and led a chorus of “Amazing Grace” that resonated throughout the nation. Hate didn’t win.
The villain who committed these vile atrocities sits behind bars for the rest of his life. The victims’ families will never be the same, but have crafted beautiful mosaics from the broken pieces fate handed them that June evening, confident in the knowledge they will see their loved ones again. Mother Emanuel Church is stronger than ever, focusing not on past brutality but on everlasting glory. And the heart of the Holy City, once cruelly broken, continues to beat.
I will never forget that summer morning, the smell of salty sea air and bread baking in the grocer’s ovens, the feel of a stranger’s hand in mine as we said our improvised prayer, the affirmation that good always overcomes evil.
That is the real Charleston. That is the real America. That is who we are.
~Miriam Van Scott
