THE REST OF HER LIFE, LEE WOULD TELL PEOPLE THAT SHE had known when the bombing happened. She had been in Sunday school. Her class was still in session in the sanctuary that day. In the front near the altar, the twelve ladies had all stood up to sing. The hymn was “Fairest Lord Jesus,” which Lee had always considered to be a beautiful, lady-type hymn. She had glanced up at the metallic vase of five white gladioli stalks, right in front of the pulpit. And she felt an explosion, very muffled, come up through her feet. It was quite some ways from Sixteenth Street Church to hers, but Lee always swore she had felt it, when it happened, September 15, 1963. And she knew something awful had happened. She just knew it as soon as she felt that vibration coming up through her shoe soles. And Lee was willing to tell anybody—then or now—the church bombing was shameful. That was really and truly wrong. And it had to been white folks what done it. BOOM. But muffled. Kind of like a growl.
It could have been her kids, those four girls.
Suppose they started bombing our churches?
In church, you have a right to be safe. Surely?