Outside Samantha Runnion’s condo, the courtyard was all chaos and paradox. Children played hopscotch and older boys rode skateboards while news crews on deadline frantically interviewed the growing crowd. Photographers with long lenses vied for position.
Parents were crying and hugging their children. People were kneeling, praying, crossing themselves, and lighting candles, many, many candles. Amid the din in English, Spanish, and Vietnamese, I heard strains of The Lord’s Prayer.
Five-year-old Samantha, kidnapped two days earlier while playing on that same sidewalk in Stanton, California, would not be coming home alive. At her residential complex, the vigil became a wake, the yard commandeered for sacred space. The mourners quickly erected a makeshift altar of massive floral displays punctuated by butterfly balloons, American flags, and windmills. Children brought mounds of new stuffed animals and even left their favorite worn toys. Religious statues and votive lights spread onto the sidewalks, spelling out Samantha’s name.
But these expressions of grief could not ease the pain of those drawn to the site—small children, foreign tourists, and Samantha’s family. Who could minister to such diverse needs? The Orange County sheriff called in a ministry team with which I volunteer. It was my most intense season of ministry ever.
In crises like this, too often ministers are spectators, wondering what to do. Working with a counseling team, I am ushered into the mess and welcomed to minister. The Trauma Intervention Program (TIP) works alongside police, fire, rescue, and emergency medical personnel. Our chapter is part of a national organization of volunteers called to the scenes of tragedy or hospital emergency rooms. This time our assignment: the “walking wounded” at Stanton.
Comforting strangers
Not having an exact procedure for “makeshift memorial duty,” I wasn’t sure what to expect.
While I am surveying the crowd, one trembling woman with three girls approaches me. She says she is pregnant with a female baby—and unsure she wants to bring another girl into the world. I give her my full attention. She needs comfort and encouragement. Part of my job is to tell her not to make life-changing decisions while under such stress.
The needs are so diverse: Some parents are afraid to let their children play outside. One mother confides that her children are scared and didn’t sleep well last night. Another mom sounds overly compulsive about locking doors and windows. Many have lost children, and this tragedy has renewed their pain. A few are loud and angry. One woman looks especially stunned—she worked with the suspect.
A news photographer mentions how tough this is on him emotionally. When I ask him to elaborate, he points to the memorial and the notes in children’s printing he has just photographed: “You were very brave. You scratched and screamed. You did everything you could.” “Dear Samantha, Hope you are enjoying heaven.”
I nod in silence, holding back tears. I sense that the photographer is asking for acknowledgement of his grief and someone to share it. Sometimes silence is the best response. Here it bonds us together.
I constantly scan the crowd for hidden victims—those who are too quiet, or children hiding behind parents. I listen, empathize, suggest, validate, hug, and pray when requested. I have communicated in French, English, and sign language.
Having done what I can for the hurting, now I hurt, too. My feet ache, my lips are chapped, and I am sunburned. I head for the Red Cross canteen in the nearby Sheriff’s Emergency Command Post. And so ends the first day.
People from all over the world streamed to the memorial for six days. On the seventh day everyone rested.
Now it was time to prepare for the funeral.
Public grief, private pain
Samantha’s father, Derek, and his two sons flew to California to attend the service. The morning of the funeral, Derek requested a private viewing of the body. I was dispatched to assist with this solemn task. After a brief introduction to Derek and his police escort, the two of us were left alone in a small room at the mortuary.
First, I took time to orient Derek and bring him up to date. He asked about the makeshift memorial and the emergency command post, both recently disassembled.
He regretted he had only seen glimpses of them on TV. I was able to describe both to him in detail. I made a mental note that in team debriefing we should discuss how important it is to arrange for the family to see and touch these tangible things.
Then, after some trust was built and Derek was ready, we walked together to the viewing room and slowly opened the door.
What happened next is confidential, but needless to say it was difficult. It took a while. Derek hadn’t said goodbye when Samantha was alive. No parent ever anticipates having to bury a child. I know that pain first-hand. Although it was a privilege to be there for Derek, it was also an emotional drain. Thank God there was time to rest and pray before escorting him to the funeral that evening.
We assembled at a meeting point. After instructions, a uniformed police officer transferred us to an unmarked car. On the way to the Crystal Cathedral in Garden Grove, I tried to prepare Derek. The building itself is imposing. We would pass by the cathedral’s cemetery and mausoleum, which could trigger pain. But we were both unprepared for what we saw as we turned into the driveway.
A sea of news vans spread as far as we could see. It hit Derek hard that a worldwide audience was coming to his daughter’s funeral. He was still thinking of Samantha as the adorable five-year old who brightened the lives of her small circle in Stanton. By public acclaim, Samantha had become everyone’s little girl.
Some of those who could not crowd into the cathedral pressed their faces against the glass walls to peer inside. A crowd gathered around an outdoor screen. Others left flowers around the statue of Christ, surrounded by children, carrying a lamb.
As our car crept forward, the family and I rehearsed the protocol from the police one last time. The police had a detailed script coordinating their actions and ours. They alerted us to the entrance we were to use, the seating plan, and the media positions. Then we took a private moment to gather courage, and opened the car doors.
With only one pool camera allowed inside the cathedral, all the news crews outside were trained on us. The moment was private no more. Ushers in red blazers quickly rescued us. They led us inside to our seats in the front row, before Samantha’s tiny coffin.
Samantha’s mom, Erin, had wanted the funeral to be perfect, and it was. A few moments were especially poignant: A playmate played the violin. One stand of the child’s favorite flowers, pink roses, were in the shape of a broken heart. The concluding video collage of Samantha’s life—including many pictures that Derek had taken—provoked emotion we could not choke back.
After the funeral, the crowd rushed the child’s father. They pressed flowers and cards into his arms as we made our way slowly back to the car. Derek remarked he didn’t know so many people cared. It was a momentary comfort in the stifling grief.
Later that evening we watched a repeat broadcast of the funeral on television. I stayed with the family to help as they relived the day’s grief.
I had earlier advised Derek of his media rights, and we again reviewed his options and preferences. I provided him with a TIP booklet, “Dealing with the Media: Your Rights.” It covers issues such as selecting a spokesperson for the family, the right to review quotes before they are published, and controlling the release of photographs. People in the spotlight are vulnerable and may need an informed advocate to help them stay calm.
I also emphasized the need for the family to continually renew its source of strength, and to anticipate the emotional roller coaster that would follow. They faced so many difficult transitions in so little time.
The next day, over burritos and enchiladas, we discussed their return to Massachusetts. Life would be routine, but not again normal after the brutal murder of Samantha.
Frontline tactics
My work with the community crisis support team has opened many doors for ministry, both to suffering families and to the larger community.
Sometimes simply being there for others is one of the most Christ-like things we can do. I recently spent one gut-wrenching afternoon at the wake of a teenage football player who was killed in a car crash.
In nearby San Diego County, high school students were shot and killed by another student. This had a ripple effect in our community, so I was invited by a local religious school to address students’ fears and concerns. That provided a chance to reinforce the messages we most wanted them to hear—of their parents’ love for them and our concern for their safety.
Through a church-sponsored bereavement group, I ministered to a couple whose daughter had drowned during a Mother’s Day picnic at the beach. The couple later told our congregation they were grateful that a church in the community was equipped to share their pain and move them toward healing.
Ministering after such events helps a community regain its equilibrium and hold onto its faith. Here are a few ways I’ve found churches can help.
1. Care for the wide circle of people involved. The concerns exposed at Samantha’s memorial site are universal. Many people felt them, and many people needed ministry. It took 27 TIP team members to provide emotional and spiritual support to our community: to Samantha’s extended family, friends, neighbors, co-workers, playmates, teacher and classmates, the girl who was with Samantha when she was abducted and her family, the men who found Samantha’s body, family and co-workers of the suspect, law enforcement, and the media.
2. Include the youth. Young people from one church assisted hundreds of children who visited Samantha’s memorial by helping them write notes to the family.
3. Minister in the local language. At the memorial site, one church group sang in English, Spanish, and Vietnamese during a daily evening devotional.
4. Say what you mean. One church offered “anything the family needs.” When asked to provide one meal for three people, they said they were out of money. They said they meant any prayer support the family needed.
5. Offer to fill an unmet need. During the Laguna Beach fires, one church offered their facility as a shelter for victims with pets before the emergency kennel opened. Elderly pet owners who didn’t want to be separated from their pets were especially thankful. The church and its location were prominently announced in the media.
6. Keep it short. At one large public funeral, a stage full of pastors greeted, read, prayed, worshiped, reminisced, and preached for two and one-half hours. A community already on emotional overload will appreciate sincerity and brevity.
In times of tragedy, the church needs to go where the action is, where the hurt is. This is the frontline of ministry.
Connie Regener is a minister and writer in Irvine, California.
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