The Walking Company in the Chattanooga mall is where I buy my shoes since my foot accident several years ago. The girls had given me a gift card for Christmas, so we decided to go shopping. They enjoy helping me be stylish while aiding my bum-foot.
Shoots Fired
When the noise rang out, the sales woman was in the floor assisting me. Looking up, we saw sparks flying, and a mother hunched over her daughter attempting to shield her. Someone said the word “shooting” as the numerous people outside the stores began running and screaming in chaos. The sales rep, who was assisting me, jumped and joined the other two sales ladies, springing into action. Two workers scurried us toward the back of the store while the other ran and drug the metal gate .
Then she frantically flung herself into the stockroom and began crying. By this time, the girls and I had gathered in between mounds of shoeboxes. Holding their hands, I began praying. ”Lord, please, help us. Keep us safe from the shots. God, be with those hurt.” Imagining blood, I added, “I can’t imagine how scared they must be! God, as policemen, ambulances, and first responders enter, protect them–“
Lindsey interrupted softly, “It’s ok. You can join us.” I paused while two of ladies entered into our circle. I continued praying while the other girl bawled in fear.
“Shhh, I hear footsteps. I think we should be quiet,” someone said.
At this time, I crawled to sit with the girl, who was still crying. Her arms were wrapped around her legs, and she had them pulled tightly toward her chest. I did not stop to think if I should ask her for permission to pray with her. I just did. Placing my hand on her kneecap, I asked, “God to give us peace,” reminding us both that God was in our midst.
Rachel whispered, “I think we should move away from this door, Mom. If someone shoots from the mall entrance of this store, we would be in the direct line of a bullet.”
Moving to an interior staircase that lead up to a storage loft, six people sat forming a quick bond during a very scary crisis. I then recalled seeing the sparks and thought a bullet must had ricocheted off something metal.
The workers shared their fears and stories from the shooting incident that occurred outside the mall on Black Friday. Within the next fifteen minutes, officials deemed it safe to move, though we were still unknown of the results. Everyone moved hesitantly.
As we paid for my shoes, we watched people in the corridors. One family, who had older teenagers, reunited by holding each other. Frightened, I thought about how the girls and I could have been in separate stores when horrid happening occurred. The three of us stood there, watching the family hold on to each other, trying to comfort one another.
Honestly, since our legs a bit like Jell-O from the stress, we decided our shopping adventure was over.
That evening the news shared details: “Fireworks set off inside Hamilton Place Mall; three injured trying to escape”.
The news had a very different perspective than mine. There were more injured.
The three of us were injured. Not physically, but emotionally.
On the way home, we had talked about how scary our morning had been. We realized a newly-found fear we had. How to be anywhere that holds a large number of people or to walk around in open places where you cannot hide. What a difficult decision store workers might have to make: let someone run inside for safety or keep them out in fear they might had been involved or could not secure store fast enough.
While hiding in the stairwell of the storage room, one of the workers called her mom. The mom’s interpretation was clear, “Quit and come home. The mall is just too dangerous!” Her mom was even affected by the situation.
The stores were injured in their sales yesterday as well. Customers were vacating the mall by the masses. By the time we reached the doors to exit for our car, the stores were nearly empty.
I do not understand the perspective of the teenagers, who thought it might be a good idea to throw fireworks, causing a distraction so they could shoplift.
Some days I do not understand the world in which we live. I strive to remember, “The Lord is refuse for the oppressed, a stronghold in times of trouble. Those who know your name trust in you, for you, Lord, have never forsaken those who seek you.” Psalms 9:9-10
To make the gathering more about family and less about money, we began drawing names to help with the cost. I loved the anticipation of finding out whose name I would draw. Time marched on, and the eight of us brought numerous friends into Nana’s house over the years. While money was tight at times, no one ever left Nana’s without receiving some small present to make them feel included.