"Are you okay?"

We are often asked, “Are you okay?”. I know for myself, I don’t always answer this question honestly. The significance behind this phrase fundamentally changed for me on November 7, 2018. That night I received text after text of that exact phrase, except, “Are you okay” meant, “Are you safe?”. The answer was, “Yes I am safe, but I’m not okay.”

I woke up Thursday, November 8th, with the knowledge that someone I knew was at Borderline last night and was probably injured, if not worse, in the shooting. Later that morning I got dressed to go to chapel as I do every week, but this time every movement was surreal and strictly automatic. The chapel had been open since the night before and it was already packed with students and faculty. I watched staff and pastors hold us up, while barely being able to stand up themselves. There was a heaviness in the space that was palpable. I went to sit down as the prelude began. Pastor Melissa and President Kimball stood at the pulpit and announced that Justin Meek had died from his injuries. I will never forget the sound and feeling of the gasp and outcry that ensued after the announcement. Throughout the service, I remember hearing messages of unimaginable pain and grief and standing together. I was overwhelmed with emotion and disbelief in the harsh reality of today and society. I cried openly in a space of mutual shock and hurt. Following the service I found myself locking eyes with someone I knew and we came together in a silent, knowing embrace. I spent the afternoon and evening surrounded by the CLU community and went to bed that night completely exhausted.

Yet, there was no rest because less than 24 hours later fire evacuations threatened and I received my second stream of texts for the 48 hour period saying, “Are you still okay?”. I mustered up every ounce of strength that I didn’t have, packed and went to my God-Mom’s house in Northridge just in case. The hardest aspects were the lack of time to process one trauma before another hit as well as my separation from the CLU community as everyone worked to stay safe from the fires. When I came back to campus I remember looking up at the red tinted horizon, as ash fell from the sky, and the wind tore at my clothes and thinking; this is what it looks and feels like when the world ends.

Eventually, everyone began to return to campus and in the weeks to months following, CLU provided support and places to begin safe recovery. I experienced various levels of distress and contemplation in this time, wrestling with the implications of how this event had affected me now and would in the future. In the lowest times I found myself clinging to my faith and finding comfort in God’s presence through the warm embrace of my community.

Emily E.