I don't think I will ever forget it as long as I live.

You would think that a church would be the last place a horrific crime would take place; yet that is where my father was when he died last year.  He was only 40 years old, too damn young, in my opinion. 

And I saw it happen, right in front of my own eyes.

I still have nightmares because of it.  I wake up most nights, drenched in sweat, heart pounding, breathing gasping and labored, and my mind flooded with the awful memories yet again.

Does the pain ever go away?  Does it ever get any easier??

And then people wonder why I no longer believe in God.  If God was so good, He could have saved my daddy, or at least, protected him from getting shot like he did.

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My name is Paisley Grace Winbottom.  I am 11 years old.  I was ten years old when this took place; it's changed my life forever, how I view things.

We were visiting my aunt in Chattanooga.  She was a very religious woman.  She insisted we'd go to church, which we did.  Little did we know that this church visit would end in tragedy for my family and several others.

We went to church; like always, Aunt Bridie came to expect good things.  We weren't so sure.  Our family was going through some things:  a messy divorce that was still ongoing.  The hostilities of an older brother who threatened to explode at any given moment.  A little brother's failing grades.  Another little brother's ongoing medical problems.  We just didn't see any hope in our family situation.

We all piled into her huge Surburban van.  Me.  Mom.  Dad.  Michael, Dougie, and Gavin, my brothers.  Aunt Bridie and her husband, our uncle Tom.  There were eight of us.

We came to the church building.  How pretty it was, with its white, pristine painted exterior, with the huge gold cross atop a tall, white steeple.  Huge stained-glass windows.  Dark-red door with the brass handles.  It looked inviting.  Maybe God would perform a miracle in our lives, I remember thinking.

Heaven knows, we sure needed it.

By the time we'd entered after we'd found a place to park, the music had already started.  We filed into the building, not saying a word, letting the music surround us.  The singing was beautiful.  If I remember correctly, the song the congregation was singing was "It Is Well, It Is Well With My Soul", an old, familiar hymn.

The worship part of the service went without incident.  Then the pastor came onto the platform.  He did the church announcements, then started to preach.  I don't remember the entire sermon, but I do remember it was about forgiving those who have hurt you in the past, just as Jesus forgave the sinners.

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We didn't see the gunman come into the back way of the church.  Suddenly, people started screaming as sounds of rapid gunfire and shouts of "This is for your f***ng Jesus!" rang through the air.  I remember all of us ducking under a pew, praying for our very lives.  I was scared for my family, most of all for my littlest brother, Gavin, who, at six, was totally disabled, unable to talk, see, walk (he was in a wheelchair), even feed himself or go to the bathroom without help.  He was totally helpless. 

Yet I loved him with the fierce love of a mother tiger has for her cubs.  I took care of him, took pride in it, too.  I was his big sister.

That was when I saw the horrible sight of my father slumped against mom's shoulder.  I thought he'd fallen asleep; then I saw the telltale spot of blood spreading across his back and shoulder. 

That was the last thing I remember until I passed out cold.

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It turned out that my father died.  He was killed instantly.  It also turned out that the pastor, Pastor Moe Johnson, his wife, Meghan, and three church members (my dad, Joseph, Sister Teetie Jones, and a six-year-old boy, Isaiah Martinez) were killed as well, for a total of five fatalities.  Surprisingly, no one else was injured by the flying bullets.

I don't remember much after this, not even the funeral; those days are a blur.  I still feel a sense of shock and hurt in my heart; there's a huge hole in my heart that nothing can ever fill. 

I am very angry towards God because He could have prevented something like this from happening, like He could have struck the gunman dead with a sudden bolt of lightning, or at least strike him paralyzed or blind so he couldn't shoot anybody.

Ever since then, I haven't stepped into a church.  Not me, not my mom, none of my family.  Right now, we don't want to have anything to do with God because all He does is end up hurting people.  Like my dad.  My dad died, and God didn't do a g.d. thing to keep it from happening!

I am going through counseling, but I don't think it is helping any.  I still have a huge black anger inside of my heart that threatens to consume me, and I can't watch any religious program or see any "Christian" without wanting to throw up.  Church (or religion in general) holds too many painful memories for me, and I'm just not ready to face that right now.  I'm happiest not having God in my life.

*to be continued.*