#2.3: This Can’t Be Happening

When we awoke after little sleep, the first thing I wanted to do was leave. Hop on the next flight and come home.

The only problem - not all of the terrorists had been caught yet, and the borders were secured. There was no place to go. There was no way to get home.

Our friend stayed the night with us in the flat and the next day drove us to the countryside of Paris, away from the city, to spend the day with his now wife and her family. 

The drive through the city was nauseating. It was complete destruction. I felt like we were driving through a war zone. 

I am forever grateful for these sweet friends and their hospitality that day. At a time where I wanted nothing more than to be home with my family, they opened their doors and provided us with a safe haven… inclusive of a proper French afternoon tea and all. 

Forever grateful for these two

By the following day, it was reported that some of the attackers were dead and some had fled Paris. While still on high-alert, our nerves had settled enough that Chris and I wanted to pay our respects.

The Place de la République became a focal point of mourning, memorial, and tributes.

Place de la République

Hand-in-hand, we walked up to the memorial site. We wanted to light a candle and say a prayer for the families who had lost loved ones.

Almost in mid-kneel down to pay our respects, what was perceived as gunshots rang out into the air.

What followed next was complete chaos.

The countless number of mourners dispersed and ran for their lives in all directions.

I remember thinking to myself, “this can’t be happening,” as we tried to stay on our feet and not get trampled, at one point even jumping over a reporter who had been knocked down just to avoid being the next unlucky soul to fall as the stampede of people fled the memorial site. 

We didn’t know where we were going. We didn’t even know where to go. But, we did know we had to run…again.

Just as the large doors to a large, garden style apartment building were closing, Chris pushed them open once more and pushed us through. We were the last ones let in.

Chaos continued to erupt all around us as we entered the outdoor courtyard.

Fearful Parisians were banging on doors begging to be let in. Trying each door they passed with the hopes that one would be unlocked. 

Chris and I continued running up the flights of stairs until we came to a utility closet. We tried the door, hoping it was unlocked. Hoping we could find a place of refuge to hide.

The door opened to a frightened mother with tears in her eyes, hiding her children behind her, using her body as a shield in this small, crammed closet.

I was crippled by this site. I couldn’t offer any comforting words- we didn’t speak the same language. But that was the day that I realized that while languages across the world may not be universal, the expression of fear certainly is. We didn’t speak the same language, yet here we were both were experiencing the exact same indescribable, intense fear.

I tried to offer her comfort through my expression as I closed the door. Leaving them to their hiding place.

Nothing runs as deep as a mother’s love.

We continued to search throughout the building for our own refuge as we helped mothers and their children climb onto the roof of the building, and reach other areas of “safety” otherwise not accessible without help.

Every nook and cranny of that building was filled with terrified people - mothers, fathers, wives, husbands, sisters, brothers, children, babies. We never did find our own spot, but we were thankful to be sheltered from the danger of the streets.

Hours later we found out that the popping noises that filled the ears of so many frightened people were not gunshots at all - it was the noise of fireworks. 

Back at the flat, I told Chris we had to leave. I tried to be brave and to ‘not let them win’, but flights had resumed back to the states and I wanted, I needed my family. 

The taxi ride through the city was grim. I was again shook to the core at the site of the utter destruction that still surrounded us as we passed multiple attack sites.

We made it to the airport. We boarded our flight. We took off.

I was finally on my way back home.

I was never so grateful to be back on American soil. Never so grateful for my home church community covering us in prayer -humbling and confidently calling up on the name of Jesus for our safe return.

Not long after our arrival, my family met us at our house in Ardmore. To this day, that was one of the most memorable embraces of my life. Relief washed over us all. 

“Thank you, Jesus,” my mom wept.