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S. Bradford Long

LGBT Writer, Yoga Teacher, Esoteric Christian

I Was in a Shooting, And Here is What I Have to Say

It seems that every other morning now I wake up to some new horror in the world. The massacre in Orlando – a hate crime against the LGBT community, and the worst shooting in recent memory – seems just the beginning of a long line of massacres the summer has in store for us. Terror continues abroad, and racially fueled crime continues without any sign of slowing its pace.

I’ve struggled with what to do, as we all have. I suppose we all feel helpless. Racism is far from dead, and how do I, as a white man who undoubtedly benefits from white privilege, even begin to fight such a cancer in our world? How do we walk the streets of Bangladesh and comfort the broken hearted? How do we look every LGBT person in the eyes and ask forgiveness for what has been done to them?

I’ve been silent, processing a lot. And then, this morning, I decided that there is one thing I can do – I can tell my own story. It’s the only thing I have, and it might not be much, but it’s a good place to start. It does not speak to the reality of racism in our country, or homophobia, or radical Islamic terrorism. This story in no way speaks for the black people being killed just for the color of their skin, or people killed just for their sexual orientation. I would not dare to tell their story – there are many others who do so far more effectively than I ever could. This story speaks only to one thing – my personal experience with gun violence. It is not meant to detract or distract from the conversation about abuse against minorities, but only to share a unique story of trauma. I can share my story to stand in solidarity with victims of terror, and with the hopes of changing the world in my own small way.

I will tell this story briefly. There are simply too many memories – they could fill a book. Nine years later, I still occasionally have violent nightmares triggered by the horrors I saw. I have little desire to dwell on what I witnessed, so I will be brief.


I was 19 years old. I’d finally graduated from highschool after several tumultuous, dangerous years, and I decided to go into YWAM (Youth With a Mission) to find myself, heal from the chaos of my former life, and find direction. I’d recently had a powerful mystical experience that resuscitated me, and made me mad for the Gospel of Jesus Christ, and YWAM was the only place I knew to go.

And so it was I found myself in Arvada, just outside of Denver, Colorado. I was doing a School of Worship (SOW), at the YWAM base there, and it was shaping up to be a horrible three months of my life. I was lonely, depressed, and struggling with my persistant gay attractions that simply refused to leave -attractions which my missionary surroundings deeply disproved of, and encouraged me to heal from.

On one December 8th, I got a tattoo. This tattoo had been an ongoing project for several months, until I finally had the money to get it done. The tattoo was SACRIFICE, all the way down my left arm. It was, to me, the most all-incompassing image of God’s love in a single word. As Christ himself once said, “No greater love is this, than to lay down your life for your friends.”

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I walked from the parlor back to the YWAM base, where a Christmas celebration was in full swing. It was Love Feast – a celebration when missionaries from all over the world gathered to celebrate Christ. There was food, and music, and performances.

That night, during a performance the children were presenting, I sent my father a pic of the tattoo. He was preaching to several hundred people at a church in San Diego, and he suddenly felt a wave of horror fill him when he saw the picture on his phone. He felt a looming threat. He tried to shake it off, but it kept growing. He started to tremble, and he stopped his sermon and said, “I’m sorry, I can’t go on. We have to pray for my son, and for YWAM Denver. Something terrible is going to happen.” I don’t know how my father knew horror was on the horizon. Maybe it was God, or maybe it was something else, but there is no doubt that he did know.

The rest of SOW left to go bowling for the evening, and I relaxed in my dorm room that was on the main hallway of the base. There was a stranger in the hallway with a dark coat talking on his cellphone. I assumed he was just another missionary.

It was when I was getting ready for bed, going in and out of my room, when the stranger opened fire on the hallway. There were five of us in his line of fire. I was the only one who wasn’t shot.

I jumped behind the door, and got into my dormroom. There wasn’t a lock on the door. I ran to the window, considered jumping out, but it was a 20 feet drop and I would brake my legs trying. It was in that moment that I felt the greatest terror I think I have ever felt in my life. Words cannot describe it. It was a primal, body terror. My higher thinking shut down. My primitive, evolutionary fear was carrying me.

With no other option, I hid in the bathroom, closed the door, pressed my back against it, and prayed over and over and over again, “Jesus protect me, Jesus protect me, Jesus protect me.” Without thinking, I reached for my phone and called my roommate and fellow SOW student Andrew.

“Andrew,” I said, once he picked up, “Someone has just come to the base and started shooting people. Go someplace safe and don’t come back.”

“Oh my God,” Andrew said. “Ok, we won’t come back. Please, Stephen, find some place safe and don’t die.”

A minute or two later, I heard a noise from the hallway. It sounded like a dog wailing. It was people wailing and crying in the hallway. That was when I knew, somehow, that the gunman was gone.

I left the dormroom, and went back out into the hallway. It was a hell I will never forget. The smell of gun smoke was heavy. Blood was on the walls. One friend was somehow making his way down the hall, with bullets in both legs, towards the community phone at the end of the hall. At the very front of the hall, my friends lay dying in a spreading pool of red.

I turned and looked down. There was a another friend, stark white and unrecognizable, staring at the ceiling, with a look of absolute terror on his face. I thought, almost passively, “he’s dying.” He must have just been behind me and to my right when the gunman fired.

I ran through the base. I made sure people were in their dorms, and safe. As I was passing through the dining room, there was a monumental CRASH and the swat team burst through the doors. I found myself facing a dozen more guns. GET DOWN ON THE GROUND they shouted, HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD. I fell to my knees and onto my stomach, hands on my head. The rest of the night – and it lasted all night – was a horrific blur. One I don’t want to tell. The news was released to us just as the sun was starting to come up: two of my friends had died.

The following days were waves of terror, nightmares, and panic the likes of which I had never felt and may never feel again. There were endless police interviews, and horror as another shooting erupted in Colorado Springs at Ted Haggard’s New Life Church. It turned out it was the same gunman, who died by gunshot at the church.

Two days later, when I was reunited with the School of Worship, they came up to me weeping, “We were just pulling into the base parking lot when you called us, Stephen.” They said, “you saved our lives.”


Eventually, the camera turns away. The eye of the public turns to other distractions. A specific shooting, for everyone else, becomes a moment in time, a thing of the past.

What no one seems to realize is that for us – those of us who lived through it – the event lives on. Our bodies continue to live the nightmare, like ghosts trapped in the Overlook Hotel. Trauma is the body’s inability to stop living that one moment over and over again.

I’ve spent years recovering. I’ve been through untold hours of therapy. I’ve been too afraid to sleep, to paralyzed to hope for a future, too frightened to get out of bed. I’ve woken up screaming from nightmares, and I’ve twice tried to throw myself out my window while dreaming of an assailant. I once even broke through the glass and wood, and woke up hanging halfway out my second story window. I’ve lost the first part of my 20s trying to reckon with the trauma.

The public may only remember the single event in time, but for everyone effected, we live in an ongoing nightmare that can be just as horrific as the original act. We live with the nightmares, the PTSD, the anxiety, the survivors guilt. We live with the inability to trust in any good future ever again, the deep-seated feeling that our lives did, in fact, end on that horrific day, and that you we moving through the world as displaced ghosts.

The event is horrific, but so is the world it leaves in it’s wake. No shooting happens in isolation. It creates new worlds of horror, not just for survivors, but for all of us. Every moment we do nothing, every moment we allow ourselves to turn away, every time we fail to do something about this epidemic, we help create a darker world. We allow the gunmen, and all the hatred they possess, to shape the world we all live in.

Be radically present to the suffering in the world, and do not look away. Be present to the ongoing suffering of the victims, the abuses and pathologies of authorities that enable violence, and the humiliation, pain, and distorted visions that drive the perpetrators to such unspeakable acts. Presence allows us to change the world; turning our gaze allows darkness to spread.

Comments

Timothy (former YWAMer) says:

My gosh. I had no idea you were that close to all of this. I’m so sorry. Such a weight to bear. I was at YWAM Tyler at the time and remember the trauma, heaviness, all the prayer meetings and whatnot for everyone in Denver.

Thanks for sharing.

Lianne Simon says:

Stephen. Thank you.

I’ve had to fire a weapon in defense of another person’s life. The emotional cost of violence–even when justified–is staggering.

Lianne

sbradfordlong says:

Thank you so much for commenting. You speak the truth.

David Works says:

I greatly appreciate your honesty and courage in sharing your story. It needs to be heard. It is valuable because you are valuable. It is a tough, tough thing to be this open and vulnerable, but it is a good thing, for you and for the rest of us.

[Was on the receiving end of the same shooter later that day in Colorado Springs, taking 2 rounds from his AR15 – after he had killed 2 of my daughters.]

sbradfordlong says:

David: thank you so much for sharing. I am filled with gratitude that you connected, and I grieve for the loss of your daughters. I remember the horror I felt when the gunman went to New Life and killed your daughters. If you are open to it, I am eager to communicate more. Please email me through my contact page if you are so inclined.

Again, thank you

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Bart Lievers says:

Stephan, tnx for sharing…. I was sitting in the car with Andrew , when you called us….
Thank you for sharing your story. You’ve never left my thoughts (also because we are FB friends)….
I can’t imagine what you went through and have no words for it.

It had also impact on my life, realizing that by bowling that late at night saved our lives. Else we would have been playing card games (or what ever) in the meeting room across our bedroom. And we would’ve definitely run into the hall way to check on what was going on…. a crazy time…. (and some more ….)

I remember you as a good friend gifted in creativity. Thank you for calling that night, more thank you for being a part of my life.
I’ll be praying for you

DJ says:

Stephen, I honestly have no words. Well, I do, but they seem so feeble in capturing my emotions. This entire account breaks my heart. Which, I guess sounds silly considering what all of this has done to you. Yet, despite the very worst kind of tragedy, you’ve somehow managed to find some beauty in it, and found some way to inspire some hope in me. And these days, that kind of thing is no small feat. I often feel more sad, frustrated, resigned, and indifferent – in short: hopeless. It’s people like you who keep me going. Thank you, friend, for your bravery. Bravery in facing this, bravery in living with it, bravery in sharing it.

Anyone who’s ever lost someone can relate to the idea that the week of the death, you are surrounded by love and support. But the next week, when everyone goes home, when no one is cooking meals for you any longer, when your support has gone back to living their lives – assuring you of course that if you need anything, ANYTHING, you can just call – that’s when you realize that truly, you are alone in the universe with this pain. No one can take it from you, no one can understand it as you do. You simply must get through it. Despite that, I feel like we all could do a little better with walking with our loved ones through that lonely place. Thank you for reminding me to give more time, thought, prayer, and presence to the ones who have to relive the tragedy day in and day out.

Keep shining, friend. You are beautiful.

S.Bradford Long : I am moved by your personal story of the shooting you survived. I also live with PTSD. I have only one question. You write that your father had a feeling of looming horror on the horizon for you and the people at your camp. He stopped his sermon to pray for you. Did he also make a phone call to warn you ?

jennasthilaire says:

Holy hell. Thank you for sharing. I feel like the ongoing effects of these shootings is not talked of enough, like we mourn the dead for a little while but do not remember those who survived and bear the horror forever. I don’t have words, just tears, and the wish that I could offer you some meaningful comfort. Thank you for the comments about being radically present to the suffering in the world, without turning away. The guidance is helpful in the face of all the horror these past weeks.

hdlmatchette says:

be careful though. the liberals hate it when you say “islamic terrorism” and won’t read your testimony.

hdlmatchette says:

and by the way, i should’ve said this first but i’ll pray for you too.

p2son says:

I am grateful you shared this. I do not believe it is too soon, or ever too soon. Our own pasts connect us to the present in many essential ways. We are all connected. And while one person’s nightmare cannot be perfectly matched with another, there is value in sharing our stories particularly as we work through the trauma. I especially appreciate the reflection you share in the piece.

Praying for you. Thank you for your courage in sharing this.

eirewolf says:

Stephen, thank you for sharing this horrific experience. I pray that you and other victims are able to heal and find peace. I pray the same for our nation that is sick with violence and fear and hatred. Lord have mercy.

Stephen. Stephen. You never cease to pour out yourself. For the good of others. For the good of the world. Even at the cost of excruciating pain for yourself.
What words could be enough to say what it means? the difference it makes? how it matters? I thank you for your bravery and I love you for your sacrifices. Please stay bold. Please keep loving us.

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