Here are three essays I wrote after the bombing. There are some poems to post with these as well. This work says how this act of terror affected me, and the community around me. I hope they bring understanding to any who wish to know more about the chaos and the deep feelings of that time eighteen years ago today. More may be learned about the experiences of Oklahomans that day by searching on social media for the hashtag #foreverchanged.
A Place Of Perfect Peace
By
Carolyn Kay Armistead -- 1996
As
we drive into the downtown area, I can still see damaged buildings -
scars from the bombing. As we leave the car in the south parking lot,
and walk toward the golden limestone of the Cathedral, I am jarred once
again by the still-boarded up windows in the front of the Cathedral
itself. By the time we are all the way across Seventh Street, and
entering the wrought-iron gates of the cloister, my mind has already
recovered. Instead of dwelling on the damage, I am already thinking of
the service ahead, what we will be singing, whether it will be too warm
to leave my blouse on under the cassock of my choir vestment.
Across
the bricked surface of the cloister, dark and cool with trees even in
the summer, we pass the Lenten cross, the same cross that was propped
against that tree when the bomb hit last year. Now we head up the steps
to the door of the Parish House. This old, varnished wood door has never
been the easiest to open, but since the bombing it is even more
reluctant to move, and creaks its protest in loud metallic groans. Now
up the old, creaking and popping stairs to the choir room, and into the
safe territory of music folders and hymnals and vaguely mothball scented
choir vestments. Here we don our robes and find our service bulletins
and wait for the rest of the choir to assemble.
When we
gather to rehearse our anthem one last time before the service, we share
many warm greetings, and small jokes. We are family, and we are making
the best of things. Our service is not to be held in the beautiful old
Cathedral, with its jewel-like Tiffany windows, glowing white marble
high altar, and wonderful old- church smell compounded of beeswax,
incense, leather, and distilled prayer. No, our service must be held in
the dun brown school cafeteria /auditorium atmosphere of Dean Willey
Hall, in the education building next to the Parish House.
Our
Cathedral, you see, is only two blocks north of where the Murrah
Federal Building used to be. When that blast hit, it tore at Oklahoma's
heart in many ways, not the least of which were the many downtown
churches damaged by that blast. Our Cathedral is one of them. The roof
was lifted and then unceremoniously dumped back on walls unprepared for
such strain. It still stands, but faces extensive reinforcement and
repair. For now, our solemn, beautiful, peaceful place of prayer is full
of scaffolding. A big thick plastic sheet covers the whole
chancel-sanctuary area from floor to ceiling. The great marble altar
still seems to glow at you through the gloom of dust and plastic. The
two Tiffany windows still shine out through the gloom with defiant
brightness.
For all the scaffolding, and the plastic, I
can still close my eyes, and smelling that wonderful essence of old
church, I can feel the same peace and love surround me there that I felt
the very first time I prayed in that Cathedral three years ago. My
husband and I were newly transferred here to Oklahoma City, after a four
year tour in Germany. We were homesick for old friends, and heartsick
because my mother was ill. St. Paul's Cathedral was the second Episcopal
church we "sampled" in our search for a "home church." St. Paul's
welcomed us with open, loving arms. Not just the people of St. Paul's,
but that old Cathedral itself seemed to reach out to enclose me in its
comforting embrace.
As time went on, we got more
comfortable in Oklahoma City, and other interests interfered with our
regular attendance at church. We drifted away from that peaceful place.
Then, on April 19, 1995, a bomb blast changed our lives, and the lives
of all Oklahomans, forever. As I worked my way through anger and shock
and disbelief at what had happened to those people, and especially the
children, I began to remember that the Cathedral was near there. As soon
as I realized how close the blast was to St. Paul's, I began scanning
the news pictures for a sight of the church. There it was! Still
standing! The old golden limestone was still glowing in the mid-morning
sun, but things were wrong. The Celtic cross on the south peak of the
Cathedral roof was missing an arm, and the stained glass windows in the
Narthex were gone. I began to worry and to pray for the secretaries, the
bookstore ladies, and the clergy that I knew might have been there
working when the bomb hit. I was very angry that the one place I most
wanted to go to seek peace and reassurance might be lost to me forever.
My
husband was one of the military volunteers who worked at the bomb site.
He told me that many times, after coming out of that building disgusted
and depressed, he would hear the clock chimes from one of the nearby
churches and think of St. Paul's. He would look up, and gather strength
from the sight of that brave, one-armed cross on the peak of the
Cathedral roof. He, too, wanted to go back and try to repay the love
that St. Paul's had shown us from the very beginning. We needed the
Cathedral, and they needed us.
The very first day that we
could, we went to the Cathedral to offer our help. We were welcomed back
with great affection, as though we had never been away at all. This
time, we stayed, and found work for ourselves to do in the gardens, on
the host committee, and in the choir. Matt also used his computer
knowledge to help publicize the Capital Funds Drive to raise money
needed for restoration expenses not covered by insurance. We are home to
stay.
The Cathedral lost no staff to the bombing, nor did
we lose any parishioners, but a couple of parishioners were injured, as
they worked in the Journal Record Building across from the bombing
site. It has been almost a year since the bombing, and here we are, just
beginning to rebuild our buildings. Our congregation however, is strong
and close-knit. We have been rebuilding each other with love and caring
all this past year. This choir that I rejoice in singing with has
helped me feel that I am making a contribution toward that healing. It
has also helped to heal me. I was in the choir at the church I grew up
in, and I had missed that unique family feeling that comes when one is
part of a choir. Music does more than soothe us; it unites us in
worship. As we sing throughout the service, I feel that sense of love
and peace from the Cathedral itself has followed us here. We are family.
We have love: each other's and God's. Nothing will ever change that.
Suffused
with this love of God and each other, and with hope for the future, we
leave our worship, and the fellowship of our Cathedral family, and head
back out into the city again. This time I see all the new windows and
other improvements that have come about since the bombing, and I know
soon enough our old Cathedral's buildings will be whole again as well.
Looking to Reclaim Peace
By Carolyn Kay Armistead
April 16, 1997
As
we get closer to the day we will worship again in our restored
Cathedral, I find a sense of restless expectation building, mixed with
some nervous fear. It is wonderful to look forward to having our worship
space back, but the reason we lost use of it in the first place is
still painful.
Yet, in spite of this I feel the excitement
is building, more than at Christmas or Easter. The anticipation is
nearly unbearable. We will see the inside of our refurbished Cathedral
on Saturday for a rehearsal, but it seems a lifetime away still.
That
old Cathedral, so welcoming, familiar, and safe is made new,
unfamiliar, perhaps a little bit treacherous. My mind doesn't have all
the details of the layout, the sounds, smells, feeling of this place in
storage like it did for the old space. Things will surprise me, perhaps
some smells from varnish or new carpet may offend my nose, the acoustics
may produce an unfamiliar resonance.
We will go in on
Sunday to worship, to sanctify this space anew with the perfume of our
prayers and songs, to add incense and candle wax back to the aura of the
place. We will also go to rejoice in a reunion with an old and dearly
loved friend, and as with a human friend, we will look for the familiar
features among the changes wrought by time and separation. We hope to
see that same warm and comforting countenance among the new finery.
Will
that refurbished space still resonate with nearly a century's worth of
prayer and worship? Will the newly cleaned and restored stained glass
windows still give a mellow and diffuse light? Will our new
contributions of incense and candle wax overcome the smell of varnish to
bring out the old "odor of sanctity?" Will I know my place? Will I do
the right thing at the right time and so not distract myself or others
from the reason we are there? Will I be able to sing through my tears?
For
I will cry, I know that. I cry when I think on it, the lovely place of
comfort I longed for two years ago, so abruptly taken from me. I will
cry again because of the children, all the little ones lost, and their
parents, that I wanted to go and pray for on that day.
Though
I do feel some trepidation, I know in my heart that the same comfort,
the same peace will be available there that were there in the past. The
same Lord is worshipped and adored in that place, and as the peace given
by that Cathedral is His peace, it will be the same. For all the
changes we must endure, this truth we do hold fast; Christ is steadfast,
His love never changes.
And so, in my mixture of emotions
about coming back into the Cathedral itself, I find joy working its way
to the surface. Which is as it should be. Out of our great sorrow, God
has heard our cries and prayers, and our songs of praise sung in spite
of our loss. Now is the time to celebrate answered prayer, to enter into
His gates with thanksgiving and into His courts with praise. With songs
of thankful rejoicing, let us go.
A Place of Peace and Joy
By
Carolyn Kay Armistead -- April 20, 1997
As
we drive into the downtown area again, I can see new glass in most
windows, few buildings are boarded up anymore. There are signs of new
life everywhere. The sky is a brilliant blue, and the sun warms us as we
leave our car in the parking lot. We stop at the curb to look up at the
Cathedral again, and our weary, longing eyes are met with a joyful
sight.
No more boarded up windows in the narthex, no more
construction fence, no more "hazardous area" tape across the doors.
Instead, the beautiful new doors to our Cathedral stand open, welcoming
everyone back inside. We cross the street, but head into the cloister
and from there to the education building and up to musty old Dean Willey
Hall for a choir rehearsal, and to put on our vestments.
There
is a real sense of anticipation here today as we prepare for our first
service in the renewed Cathedral. Oh, the nine o'clock service has
already taken place, but for those of us who come to the 11 o'clock
service, this is the first time. We are all lamenting how warm it is
going to be in the loft because the air conditioning has yet to be
installed. Everyone is dressed for summer weather and some delay putting
their vestments on until after rehearsal.
I am still
afraid that I will trip, or go the wrong way, or do something else
foolish during the processional or at Communion. No, I tell myself, it
will be all right. After all, we've spent the last two years dodging all
kinds of obstacles in Dean Willey Hall with dignity, if not grace. I'll
manage.
Yesterday we sang in the Cathedral for the first
time, and it is glorious! The acoustics are wonderful. We don't have to
strive so hard to be heard. Our loft is beautiful, and we can see the
whole of the chancel and sanctuary area, and most of the nave from up
there.
That lovely Cathedral is definitely still a place
of beauty, but yesterday there were too many things going on at once to
be very peaceful. We were rehearsing, the acolytes were practicing,
people were coming in to see the new space, it was quite an uproar. Yet,
that old Cathedral seemed to be laughing with delight, both at its new
finery, and at seeing all of us again. If buildings can smile, St.
Paul's Cathedral was grinning from ear to ear yesterday during that
rehearsal time.
Today, on Sunday, despite some confusion
before the processional, we will have a wondrous and inspiring service.
As we enter the Cathedral in procession, I am struck again by the
majesty of this restored space. The sanctuary walls, which used to be a
coral color, are now a rich, textured red, against which the white
marble of the high altar really shines. The two Tiffany windows on
either side of the high altar are sparkling like jewels in the morning
sunlight. As I turn to go up the side aisle on my way back to our choir
stairs, I notice all the beautiful stained glass windows down the side
of the Cathedral. They are all newly cleaned and restored. They too seem
to glimmer in the light. I also note, as I go out the door to the
narthex, that the smell of varnish is very faint, and that candle wax
and incense, and some of that old "odor of sanctity" are indeed making
inroads in the restored Cathedral's atmosphere.
I scramble
through the narthex, still unfinished, and up the as yet uncarpeted
stairs to our loft. I stop, breathless, in front of my seat on the west
side- front row, right next to the organ console. I struggle to catch my
breath and find my place in my music. (I find that I cannot sing and
climb stairs at the same time.)
As we get into the sermon
portion of the service, I find myself awestruck again at the glorious
appearance of our Cathedral. The vaulted ceiling of the chancel is now
flanked by the vaults above the two small side chapels. Then I look
around at the loft I am sitting in, and realize that one set of dormers,
with their stained glass windows, are there where we are now level with
them.
Also, I see many comfortingly familiar things. I
look down on the congregation, and there is Mrs. Long in her usual
place, with Mary Kathryn sitting next to her, where we used to always
sit in the row behind them before we joined the choir. It is so good to
see them back in their usual place. To be able to see the Dean when he
preaches a very moving sermon, to be able once again to kneel at the
high altar to receive Communion, to hear so many familiar voices around
about me lifted in praise to God, all of that brings my spirit home.
Home to that same peaceful and comforting space the Cathedral has always
been for me. All through the service my spirits soared, this is my
beloved, longed for Cathedral, and it is better than it was.
I
have my chance to say a prayer for those who were lost two years ago,
but for a wonder, I do not cry. So comforting and familiar is that
place, my longed for place, that I do not need to cry. Once again, that
old Cathedral seems to reach out to me in my place of sorrow, and gather
me in its arms and give me the peace I have been searching for. It also
fills my heart with joy. Joy in finding a dear old friend alive and
well after a long separation.
I have found my place, and
not only did I know my place, but my place knew me, and it seemed glad
that I was there. Yes, our place of love and solace is restored to us,
and our congregation has breathed a well - deserved sigh of relief.
There
are many things to delight in about our restored Cathedral, but the
best thing is something we've had all along: each other. If not for the
love and strength in this congregation, we would have no church at all.
If not for the strength and leadership of our Dean, this restoration
would never have been possible.
This day's celebrations
were not just to delight in being in our beloved Cathedral again, but
also to thank God for the love He gave to us. Love for God, and love for
one another. The joy which we have shared this day will be with us
through many difficult times ahead, as we finish restoring the whole
Cathedral campus. It will sustain us, and so will that love that God has
put into our hearts.
Adam's Angel
(A meditation during the organ recital, Nov. 17, 1998)
By Carolyn Kay Armistead
To the rest of us
She is nothing but colored glass
An adornment
But she speaks to Adam;
Or maybe only he will hear her.
Adam isn't always clean
In his Army coat of scruffy green
But he is always serene
As he goes on his way
Beaming.
Doing the Angel's bidding.
"He talks to himself."
One will say.
"He's insane."
Says another.
I don't care.
He talks to angels
And the church wouldn't feel right
Without Adam
Besides,
Isn't he our brother?
Adam, in the old coat,
Who talks to stained glass angels,
And sees a truth we don't.
A Cathedral Christmas
By Carolyn Kay Armistead
1998
Here we are again:
The faithful and the now and then,
Assembled once more with great joy
To welcome a special baby boy.
This time our Cathedral is restored
To give homage to the One adored;
Our family home again made new,
Through with the years of "making do."
A delight to all the senses it becomes,
With new organ to support our songs,
And finery restored to its original glory,
The better to illustrate the Gospel story.
So round His table again we gather,
Banished is the world and all its bother,
For we are family, loved and treasured;
A gift with value too great to be measured.
As into the cold, crisp night we go,
Our hearts remain with love aglow.
Each face we have seen, each voice is precious,
For in each is God's love for us reflected.
Christmas Eve
By Carolyn Kay Armistead, 1996
The scent of pine needles, incense, and candlewax fill the air.
There is much confusion about the processional, and just who goes where.
But the night is full of magic, wonder and joy
As our Christian family prepares once again to welcome the baby boy.
The baby boy who came into a world of uncertainty and pain,
Who understands how we feel, being in Dean Willey Hall again,
And not in our beautiful Cathedral, with its comfort and sacredness.
He knows how it feels to deal with hatred's harmful effects.
Well He knows our sorrow, our impatience and our pain
And yet He makes us glad to be together, even if in the Hall again.
For He was not born in a fancy palace, or a hospital clean and grand;
But in a lowly stable, with cows, sheep and shepherds close to hand.
If He could be content with a birthplace so quiet and humble;
Who are we to be unhappy with our lot and to grumble?
After all, we are safe and still together, and together we still can sing
The same joyful song of angels, and isn't that the most important thing?
