Ten Years

Brother Landen dropped me off that morning after seminary. I remember walking up the front walkway towards the main entrance to the high school, just off to another day of school. As I approached the gate, with the office on my right, I suddenly saw students begin running out of the cafeteria through the side door, coming my direction.

I was very confused and not sure how to take it. I tried to find out by saying, “What’s going on?” “What happened?” A kid I’d never seen before (and never have again) exclaimed, as he moved along with the crowd, “Someone’s shooting!”

I don’t think it sunk in right then – it didn’t seem real. But then I heard a loud gunshot, and I turned around and ran with the crowd toward the street. We stood beyond the school gates, a huge mass huddled together, until a teacher beckoned us to come back. He ushered us through the main gate and to the right, past the main office and across the quad from the cafeteria to the library. Dozens of students were in there, and we were all confused as to what was going on. My friend Ben’s girlfriend Shy came up to me with tears running down her face, saying she’d heard that Ben was shot in the head. Nothing was real to me – I tried just to comfort her, telling her I was sure he’d be okay. He wasn’t – he died in the hospital later.

No one really had cell phones back then. The school officials in the library with us let us use a phone at the back of the library if we wanted. When it wasn’t so crowded, I made my way toward it and used it to call my family, but the line wasn’t working. I realized that the lines around this area were likely very crowded with phone calls, so after several attempts, I called my dad at work. My dad’s secretary answered and said he wasn’t there. I told her it was me, and told her that I was okay. I realized later that that was the best thing I could do for all of my extended family, because when they couldn’t get through to my house, they called my dad’s office, and his secretary would tell them I was fine.

My parents probably had to wait longer to know that. They were taking my little sister to middle school when they saw everything near the high school. They drove her to school and dropped her off, then headed back to the school. They parked somewhere and stood across the street from the school at the church with other parents. At some point, a police officer read a list of names, and asked for the parents of those children to come talk to him afterwards. My dad told me he was standing with my seminary teacher’s husband when they read the list, and neither mine, Taylor’s, nor Lacy’s names were read. Brother Stockwell put his arm around Dad as they both cried.

After what seemed like forever, we were finally informed we were going to be leaving. We exited the library through the back door instead of the door that faced the cafeteria, and joined with hundreds of other students who were being let out of their classrooms where they had also been locked down. I wondered if my parents would be there. We walked the entire length of the hallway before we got to the parking lot on the other end of the school. Right when we got to the opening, I saw my parents standing there. I only remember their faces being so relieved, and my dad crying as he swept me up in his arms. I’d never seen him cry before, and I knew then that I would never in my life need to doubt his love for me. My mom was crying too, of course. She hugged me too, and we walked to the car and drove home. I don’t even remember where they parked it.

In the aftermath, I watched the news, I read the newspaper – things I had never really done before. I listened to national news anchors mispronounce words like Willamette, and I read about how my friend, Ben Walker, had died. I learned of how people I knew, and people I eventually met and became friends with in the years that followed, had been injured or killed. I went to Ben’s funeral. I visited the wall of flowers that, until the shootings, had just been the fence in front of the school. I watched my father help one of my friend’s dad give a blessing to her. I talked in my seminary class with a reporter from the New Era. And I continued on with my life. 

I finished high school. My family moved – to Washington, then six years later to Portland. I served an LDS mission to the south of England for two years. I went to college. I graduated from college. And now I’m 25 years old, living in Utah and working for a market research firm. But in the last 10 years, I haven’t forgotten what happened on that day – and it is still one of my most vivid memories.

Please remember the families of Ben Walker and Mikael Nicholauson, as well as Kristin Kinkel (Kip killed their parents), in your prayers. And good luck to all the survivors of the Thurston High School shootings. But not just those injured – the community members of Springfield, Ore. are also survivors.