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December 1, 1997, began like any other school day—nothing out of the ordinary. My twin, Mandy, and I planned to do our homework after school, like always. Then I was going to study my driver's handbook so I could get my permit on December 24, our birthday.

Mandy and I had started our sophomore year at Heath High School with the typical classes: world civilization, algebra, journalism, English, choir, band. As Christians, we'd also started going to a morning prayer group.

But at about 7:45 that morning, as our group of 35 students finished our devotional, a classmate, Michael Carneal, started shooting. At first, Mandy and I both thought it was a stunt. The gun pop sounded fake, like on TV. But when a bullet flew through Mandy's hair, she knew it was real. Mandy threw herself on top of me.

I'd been shot, but I didn't realize it right away. I wasn't aware of any pain, just a sensation of pressure. I felt as though I'd been knocked down. I was completely stunned, confused, in shock; I couldn't believe what had just happened. In fact, it's still unbelievable.

After the shooting, the ambulance took me to Lourdes Hospital, near the school. The doctors told me the bullet entered my left shoulder and damaged my spinal cord. As a result, I'm paralyzed from the waist down. They told me I'll never walk again.

I was sick a lot my first week at Lourdes—nausea, fluid on my lungs, swelling around my spinal cord. Once all that improved, they started my therapy. First was the tilt table to get me used to being upright again. Then I began exercises to strengthen my arms and upper body. I also started learning how to get around in a wheelchair.

At first, dressing myself took 45 minutes. Trying to learn how to do everything again, to be normal, was so hard it made me sick or wore me out.

Then in February, I went to Cardinal Hill Rehabilitation Hospital in Lexington, 260 miles away, to continue specialized therapy. My family went with me—my mom, Joyce, my dad, Ray, my older sister, Christie, and Mandy—and rented an apartment. I began daily physical therapy, including aerobic exercises to get my heart rate up. One of these was the arm bike, which is exactly what you would do with your feet, except it's done with your arms to strengthen them.

Another daily event was occupational therapy. There I learned how to get from my wheelchair to the bathtub, and put on my shoes.

The best of my daily therapies was recreational therapy. I got to play basketball, throw frisbees, and swim. I also had to stand for a half-hour each day, so Mandy and I would play cards to pass the time.

Thankfully, I got to leave Cardinal Hill in time to finish my sophomore year at Heath. Physical therapy continued every day—even at school. The therapists came to school at 11 a.m. to help me stretch my legs. Sitting in the wheelchair for a long time makes them stiff.

Being back at school felt comfortable because everybody treated me as though the wheelchair weren't there. Getting around in my wheelchair is more frustrating than I expected. Most places aren't wheelchair-accessible. Things that once were easy are now hard. I never even thought about them before.

Grace for the days ahead
I have thought about Michael and wondered why he decided to shoot us. Mandy and I both knew him; we'd been in band with him—ridden the same bus several times on trips. Joked with him. We had a lot of the same friends. Everybody knows everybody at Heath. None of us thought Michael was odd or dangerous or anything like that.

Michael took so much from so many that day. But I believe hating him is wasted emotion. I know it isn't what Jesus would do. And I'm not the one to judge him or decide what should happen to him. It's for God to do the judging. Besides, hating Michael won't make me walk or bring my schoolmates—Kayce, Jessica, and Nicole—back to life. Their deaths still seem unreal.

Of the three, Kayce was closest to me. Every day, I think about her and the happy times we shared—parties, band, friends. I know all three are in heaven, but that doesn't keep me from missing Kayce. Nothing happens without a reason—even this—so God will somehow make good come from it. I believe that.

I do feel sorry for Michael. Unlike him, I can get on with my life. I have lots of friends supporting me every day. I'm not mad at him. I can forgive him. I would really hate the feeling of carrying an awful grudge in my heart.

A lot of people have told me my good attitude has been an inspiration to them. I think that's my purpose.

God's helped me in so many ways. First, he gave me a loving, supportive family, including my sister, Mandy. So many people, even ones I don't know, have sent contributions to the trust fund for my medical expenses. A group of car dealers gave us a new conversion van equipped with a wheelchair lift, and they plan to install hand-operated brakes so I can drive it when I get my license. Students sent me a laptop computer, and my hospital room was filled with cards, balloons, stuffed animals, posters, and flowers. But most important, many people have prayed for me.

Of course I want to walk again, but when I pray, that's the last thing I pray for. I pray for everyone else who's coping with what's going on in the world, but especially I pray for my mom because she's in a wheelchair, too. She has arthritis.

I also pray for patience, because sometimes I'm not as patient as I wish I were. I plan to keep praying I'll get through this; I'll try my hardest and not give up.

The most important lesson I've learned through all this is to never stop believing there is a God. Things like this are going to happen, but he will help us through them.

Condensed from Today's Christian Woman (Sept/Oct 1998), © 1998 Missy Jenkins and Kay Lawing Gupton. Used by permission.

Jesus Christ did not remain at base headquarters in heaven, receiving reports of the world's suffering from below and shouting a few encouraging words to us from a safe distance. No, he left the headquarters and came down to us in the front-line trenches, right down to where we live, where we contend with our anxieties and the feeling of emptiness and futility, where we sin and suffer guilt, and where we must finally die. There is nothing that he did not endure with us. He understands everything.
—Helmut Thielicke

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