Dear Friend,
Almost every day for the past three years, someone has asked me, “Ashley, how do you cope with the things you’ve seen?” or “Ashley, how do you stay so positive after everything that has happened to you?” I always give the same answer, and I am sure there are people who won’t believe me but …
Forgiveness.
I think most people see me as unlucky. I wasn’t even supposed to be in that hallway when walked out of the computer lab with a gun. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time and it changed my life forever. It would be so easy to be angry about that, to spend the rest of my life asking, “Why me?” I think that’s what people expect me to do. Or maybe it’s just what people think they would do.
But I’m not angry.
I’m not going to say I’m grateful. That might be taking it a little too far. But I will say that, three years on, I like who I am. I like where my life is and where it’s going. And the truth is, I don’t know what the alternate version of me, the version that wasn’t in that hallway, would look like. She might not need a wheelchair, sure, but she also might not have the beautiful family that I have now. She might not have the faith I do. She might not have found her purpose the way I have.
So I forgive.
I wasn’t in a good place during my senior year of high school. Logan and I had broken up over winter break. He was a year older and had moved to the next county over for a job. We’d been together since my freshman year, and not seeing him every day like I was used to had taken a toll. I was selfish and frustrated and whenever we were together, I found myself picking fights for no reason. Eventually we both got tired of it and broke up two days before Christmas.
On top of that, graduation was approaching, and I had no idea what I wanted to do after. All my friends had plans—college, vocational school, working on their parents’ farm—but I didn’t feel excited about anything. I was leaning toward cosmetology school, but only because nothing else interested me. I felt completely lost, and for the first time ever, I didn’t feel like my faith was guiding me.
I went to church with my parents and sister each Sunday. I was the president of the Fellowship of Christian Students at VCHS. I went to youth group with my friends on Wednesday nights, and I prayed. I prayed so much, but nothing seemed to be changing. It felt like God wasn’t listening to me. And, I have to admit, my desperation turned me into someone who wasn’t a very good Christian.
The way I saw it, I was doing everything right, and God still wasn’t guiding me to what I wanted. Meanwhile, I saw my friends and classmates and even my own family not being as “good” as I was, not being the kind of Christians I thought they ought to be, but that didn’t seem to matter. They seemed happy, and I wasn’t. They seemed to have purpose, and I didn’t. And the only way I could make myself feel better about that was to judge them. To remind them—and myself—that they weren’t as “good” as I was. I pointed out every little sin I could find because it made me feel better about myself. I’m not proud of that.
In fact, the last time I saw Sarah McHale, I was pretty terrible to her.
I’d gotten a hall pass during Senior English to use the bathroom. Mrs. Keebler, our usual teacher, wasn’t the type to allow students out of class, even to use the bathroom, so normally I never left until the bell rang. But Mrs. Keebler was out that day, and we had a more lenient substitute, Mr. Shockley. He was one of those young guy teachers who told us we could call him Keith and let students cuss in class. He was on the usual rotation of substitute teachers, so we all knew him pretty well, and none of us were surprised when he suggested we pull out our phones and discuss the poetry of our favorite bands.
That March, my playlist was full of Christian rock and breakup songs, and I really wasn’t in the mood to discuss either with my classmates. So when it was almost my turn to pick a song, I decided it was a good time to go pee, and Mr. Shockley handed over the hall pass.
The girls’ bathroom was around the corner and down the hall, past the computer lab. I remember the door was open when I walked by. I even remember glancing inside and everything looking completely normal. Ms. Taylor was at her desk, a handful of students were on their computers, talking and laughing with the kids around them. It was just so ordinary that it’s hard to imagine what happened only a few minutes later.
Anyway, when I got to the bathroom, it was empty. But almost as soon as I entered the stall, I heard Sarah and Lee walk in. I didn’t know Lee very well at the time—just that she was Sarah’s best friend. Sarah and I had gone to the same church since we were kids, though. Our families often shared a pew at Virgil County Baptist. I liked Sarah, she was a sweet girl, but she hadn’t been coming to the Fellowship of Christian Students meetings lately.
I found out why when she and Lee started talking.
“How bad is it?” Sarah asked.
“Not that bad. Your shirt mostly hides it.”
“Maybe I can cover it with foundation?” I could hear her purse unzipping. “It’s a good thing you noticed. If my parents saw this, they’d lose it.”
“It’s ridiculous that you can’t have a boyfriend until you’re sixteen.”
“I know. I’m trying to get them to change the rule, but if they find out I got a hickey behind the shop building when I was supposed to be at an FCS meeting … I’d probably be locked in my room until I’m thirty.”
Sarah was in the middle of rubbing foundation over a tiny bruise, just above the collar of her shirt, when she saw me. Her dark eyes went wide. Lee glanced at me, too, and she moved protectively in front of Sarah, as if she could hide what her friend was doing. It was too late, though.
“I was going to ask you where you’ve been the last few Tuesdays,” I said, “but I guess I have my answer.”
“Oh my gosh, Ash. I’m sorry. I just—”
“Hey, I get it. Who needs Jesus when you have boys that’ll suck on your neck?”
I knew I was being mean, but I couldn’t stop myself. She was breaking her parents’ rules and lying and skipping out on FCS meetings—things I never did—but she didn’t seem to feel lost at all. On top of that, this little freshman had a boyfriend, someone she liked enough to sneak around with, and I’d just been through a breakup. I was lonely and she wasn’t. I was struggling and she wasn’t. And it was so easy to tear her down a little.
Sarah’s round face turned tomato red. “You aren’t going to …”
“Tell your parents? No,” I said. “If you feel comfortable telling lies, why should I stop you? Just remember, though. They might not know what you’re doing, but God does.”
Both Sarah and Lee watched me as I walked to the sink and washed my hands. When I looked up into the mirror, I realized there was one other person in the bathroom with us. Kellie Gaynor, in all of her black-clad glory, was standing in the corner, smoking a cigarette while she glared at me. I rolled my eyes at her.
I feel no regret about how I judged Kellie Gaynor back then. If anything, she ended up being worse than I thought.
When I finished, I grabbed a paper towel and dried my hands. “You’d better get back to class,” I told Sarah and Lee. “Or else you’ll have another lie to tell.”
Neither of them said a word to me as I walked out of the bathroom. I knew the bell would be ringing in a few minutes, and I hoped that if I walked back slowly enough, Mr. Shockley wouldn’t have time to make me pick a song from my phone to analyze.
At first I didn’t think twice about the silhouette of the boy standing in the computer lab doorway. Until I heard the popping.
I froze, right in the middle of the hallway. I’d been hunting with my dad enough times to know what that sound was.
Gunshots.
Gunshots a few feet from me.
Gunshots in my high school.
It didn’t make sense at first, which is why I just stood there, watching as , his back to me, fired into the computer lab. I couldn’t stop staring at his back, blankly wondering why he would shoot at computers of all things. Because the idea of him shooting people didn’t quite register.
Not until I looked down, at the sliver of classroom visible between his feet, and saw blood spreading across the carpet.
That’s when I ran. But it was like the way you run in a dream, when you feel like you are running as hard and fast as you can but you aren’t getting anywhere. The bathroom wasn’t actually that far from the computer lab, but it felt like it took forever to get there. Up ahead, coming from the other end of the hall, I saw two more people, Coach Nolan and Miles Mason, and I opened my mouth to shout to them.
But before the words left my mouth, I felt something hit me—hard—in the middle of my lower back. I tumbled forward in what felt like slow motion. I don’t remember if I tried to stand up after I hit the ground. I just know that I closed my eyes and started to pray as more gunshots fired in the hallway. There was shouting and running and then something heavy fell on top of me and I gasped.
“Shh,” a harsh voice hissed in my ear. “Don’t. Move.”
It was Miles Mason. A kid I’d never given the time of day. He was a couple years younger than me and, by all accounts, a bad seed. He was one of VCHS’s most notorious troublemakers—certain to be held back a year because he’d missed so much school while being suspended. He spent more time in detention than in class. Miles Mason was the kind of kid I warned younger students to stay clear of.
And there he was, throwing himself on top of me. Protecting me.
I lay as still as I could, playing dead beneath Miles and trying not to think about why I couldn’t feel my legs. I opened my eyes just a little, peering through my lashes, and realized we were right near the girls’ bathroom. I saw a pair of shoes, redacted shoes, walk inside.
Where I’d left Sarah and Lee a few minutes ago.
I held my breath and tried not to sob as I heard more gunshots. And then a pause.
And then I heard a conversation that changed my life.
“What’s this?” It was his voice. “A cross necklace? Who the hell wears this ugly-ass cross necklace?”
“Me.”
The voice was strong. Not quavering or scared. And I knew it was Sarah’s voice. It had to be. It could only have been Sarah.
“Yours?” he asked.
“Yes. It’s mine. Can I have it back?”
“You think Jesus is looking out for you now?”
“I do.”
Pop. Pop.
The next few minutes are still a blur. There was yelling and crashing and footsteps and Miles whispering for me to not move, don’t move. But I couldn’t even if I’d wanted to. And then he climbed off me and there were sirens and police officers and blood and an EMT asking me my name.
The next clear memory is hours later, after I woke up from surgery. My parents and my little sister, Tara, were all there, hugging me and crying, and a doctor told me I’d been shot in the spine and I might not be able to walk again.
I’d have to deal with my feelings about all of that later. First, I had to tell everyone what I’d heard. I had to know what happened to Sarah, because I needed to apologize to her.
“Sarah McHale?” the detective who had come to ask me questions in my hospital room said. “Unfortunately …”
He didn’t have to finish the sentence.
I’d heard Sarah’s last words, though. They were brave and defiant as she declared her devotion to the Lord. Just a few minutes before, I’d been shaming her for not being the kind of Christian I was, but then she was the one to stand up to this monster, to use her last moments refusing to deny her faith. I don’t think I would have been strong enough to do that.
I told everyone who would listen about what Sarah had done. The police, her parents, our preacher. I also told them about Miles, being the hero I never would have expected. And I vowed from that day on to never be the judgmental person I’d been before. That wasn’t what being a Christian was supposed to be about. That wasn’t what God wanted from me.
And for the first time in months, I felt like I had some clarity. Yes, my life was upside down and I was going to have to learn how to fit into this new reality, but I felt like God was guiding me again. I knew what He wanted from me. And I knew the first step was to forgive. Forgive myself for the person I had been, for the way I’d treated Sarah the last time I’d seen her, and to forgive the boy who shot me, because being angry at him would solve nothing.
The only person I’ve had a hard time forgiving is Kellie Gaynor.
Shortly after the shooting, she started telling people that the cross necklace police had found in the girls’ bathroom was hers. That she was the one who had spoken to . I don’t know why she lied. It’s not like anyone would believe her, anyway. Kellie was an angry, rude person who’d never stepped into a church in Virgil County as far as I knew. So for her to try and take that away from Sarah, to take her last moments of bravery from her …
I don’t wish Kellie Gaynor ill. But I want nothing to do with her. And I hope she thinks about her lies every day and regrets them.
It’s not super logical, I know, that I could forgive a boy who put a bullet in my back but not Kellie. Maybe it’s that I already had bad feelings about her and she just proved me right. Maybe it’s that her lies made a mockery of my faith and tried to damage a moment that meant so much to me. Maybe it’s that she could suffer the way I had, the way the other survivors had, and still bring herself to fabricate stories and take something away from the dead.
Or it could just be that by the time I found out what she was doing, I was all out of forgiveness.
When that boy shot me, it was random. He didn’t know me. He was younger than me, and I don’t think we’d had a single class together. He was just messed up and angry, and I was there. But something about what Kellie did feels personal. She tried to take something away from Sarah. And, because what Sarah did had resolidified my own faith, had been my light in the darkness after the shooting, it felt as if she was taking it from me, too.
I’m sure God would want me to forgive her. I’m sure that’s what I’m supposed to do. But it’s not something I’ve been able to just yet.
I stayed in the hospital for several weeks. I finished my classes there while doing physical therapy and trying to get used to my new life on wheels. Honestly, I think that transition was harder on my parents than it was on me. I’m not going to say it was easy or that I didn’t get frustrated quite a bit, especially in those first months, but I was alive. God had watched out for me, and I knew I shouldn’t take that for granted. I finally understood that He had a plan, and this was part of it.
And alongside all of the struggle, there were also good things that happened to me after the shooting. First, Logan and I got back together. He visited me in the hospital every night, driving an hour each way just to see me after work. By the end of the summer, we were engaged. On Valentine’s Day of the next year, a month before the one-year anniversary of the shooting, we got married. And six months ago, I gave birth to a beautiful little girl, Miriam.
The other thing that happened was that I finally figured out what I wanted out of my life. And two years ago, I started applying to nursing school. The nurses I knew when I was in the hospital kept me comfortable and sane and held my hand when things got really tough. I want to be that person. In a strange way, getting shot was the light I needed toward my path.
I don’t want to romanticize what happened to me or the other victims that day. I feel like I need to emphasize again that it wasn’t easy. Sometimes it’s still not. Some days I still get upset, thinking about the things I used to be able to do. Some days, especially in the spring, memories of the shooting keep me awake at night. I’ve had to forbid my dad and sister from ever talking about hunting in my presence, because it instantly makes me think of the sound of those gunshots.
But, at the same time, I have a good life. I hear so often from people that if they went through what I have, if they were disabled or in a wheelchair, they don’t think they could go on. But if I let myself feel that way, I would have missed so much good. My family and my future and my friends—Lee and Eden and Miles and Denny, the other survivors who have come to mean so much to me—there are so many wonderful things in my life that I am eternally grateful for.
There were a lot of tragedies the day of the shooting, but I am not one of them. I have found peace and beauty and a renewed sense of faith. I am not someone to be pitied or mourned, because I survived, and I found my place in the world. I am able to wake up every morning, smile at my husband, hold our little girl, and feel certain that I am on the path God intended for me.
Miles Mason and a group of surgeons may have been the ones to save my life, but forgiveness—that’s what kept it worth living.
With love,
Ashley Chambers-Osborne