‘I Have Your Child. They Are Safe.’
I work at Temple Israel as a reading specialist. My son, Dylan, attends school there. That morning started like any other. We played a matching game of upper-case and lower-case letters. We celebrated new learnings. We laughed, we smiled, we hugged.
Lindsay Kalt
Around 12:05 p.m., I walked to Dylan’s classroom to say good-bye. I would be back to pick him up later for his swimming lesson. I walked out to my car with another teacher. Before driving, I texted friends and family back who I couldn’t talk to during my time with students.
Moments later, everything changed. A car, we later learned was filled with explosives, crashed into the building. The sound was violent and sudden. Smoke started rising from the building and sirens quickly filled the air. Within minutes, police cars, emergency vehicles and FBI agents began arriving. Officers ran toward the building carrying massive guns.
I started screaming, “Let me back in. My son is in there. Our babies are there!”
I showed my rainbow ECC badge, pleading with officers. “I work here. I need to go back in.”
But then we heard the shots.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
I counted every one.
Instinct took over and I started running toward the building, but police pushed me back as they rushed forward. The chaos was overwhelming.
Soon, clergy and staff members began running out of the building coughing from the smoke. In that moment, Rabbi Paul Yedwab found me and held me as I screamed. I needed to get to my son. I was only 20 feet from the building, but I have never felt farther away from anything in my life.
My phone began exploding with calls and texts. Hundreds of messages were coming in. Fellow moms were praying their babies were safe.
Our teachers’ group chat filled with messages about what they were seeing and hearing. They were following protocol.
I texted my son’s teacher. “Marci,” I wrote, “please protect him.”
Her response came quickly. “We’re locked in the bathroom. I’m with Jodi. We’ve got this.”
At that point, I realized I was the only person outside with access to our teacher chat. I began shouting information from the teachers’ messages to the police officers nearby.
They began telling me what instructions to send back. Lock and barricade the doors. Do not open them. If they can get students out the windows, start doing it.
I don’t know how much time had passed before I saw the first children running from the building. I ran toward them. Seeing their faces brought enormous relief, but my son was not with them.
So, I started texting parents.
“I have Madden.”
“I have Avi.”
“I have your child. They are safe.”
Then, finally, my son appeared.
He was carried out through a window by courageous law enforcement officers and brought into Shenandoah. I ran to him. I cried and held him as tightly as I could.
Then something remarkable happened. He sat down next to his teachers, calmly coloring and eating M&Ms.
He had no idea what was happening. He thought it was a drill.
Somehow, I pulled myself together. I knew other parents were feeling the same terror I had felt, so I started texting as many parents as I could. One by one, we accounted for the classes. Five classrooms safe.
“I have your child. They are safe.”
FBI agents, police officers and detectives filled the room. They asked me to print a list of all students. No one would leave until every single child was accounted for. So, I went child to child. Baby to baby. As more teachers and students arrived, we checked them off the list.
Having a job to do kept me calm.
Parents were now starting to arrive, running close to a mile from where they had to park their cars to get to their own children. I looked around the room at my closest friends holding their babies. We all knew we would break eventually, but not yet. Not in front of our children. I kept sending messages. “All students are safely out of the building. Please spread the word.”
About three hours later, I stood in a back room with four officers, our director, Rachel, and the list. We had every child. Every single one.
Our security team, teachers and law enforcement officers had saved us from what could have been a mass casualty event. My body went numb.
A police officer held me up as the reality washed over me. We were safe.
Later, we would hear countless stories of bravery from inside that building.
There will never be enough gratitude for the people who protected our children that day. For the security guards who did everything they could to protect us, saving countless lives.
For teachers and staff who locked doors, comforted babies and carried them to safety. For the officers who ran toward danger. For Shenandoah Country Club, who welcomed us with open arms. For everyone who stood between our babies and unimaginable harm. They saved our children. And for that, there are no words big enough to say thank you.
That was absolutely the worst day of my life, but here is what I know. Love is so much stronger than hate, and our community, filled with so much love and support, will get through this together.
Lindsay Kalt is an ECC teacher at Temple Israel.
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