When tragedies happen without warning, we often are left feeling unprepared and powerless. April 16 was more akin to an earthquake than a hurricane. We had no advance warning, no forecasters to tell us what to expect. Even worse, what we in Blacksburg experienced was at its very core an un-natural disaster. As the news of 10, then 20 and finally 33 dead came out, I didn't know how to pray, except for grace, lots of grace.

Blacksburg is a small town in rural Appalachia, a small town that happens to be home to a major university. People from all over the world come to Blacksburg to learn, to research and to prepare for the rest of their lives. We truly can say, "Things like this don't happen here."

This act was not orchestrated by terrorists or even a stranger -- it had been one of our own, a student. This was someone we could have passed by the day before and not even noticed. Seung-Hui Cho was one of us.

Those first days are a blur. I spent my time on campus, in the dorms, the dining halls, trying to realize a "ministry of presence" within this shaken community.

There were many different voices to be heard in those days -- some amplified through megaphones, calling for the students to repent, lest such evil happen to them. Some dared to speak of forgiveness. Others cried for vengeance.

Some of the campus ministers and local clergy tried to preserve the university chapel as a place of quiet, where voices were directed only to God. It served as a refuge, away from the media's glare, away from the crowds of curious spectators.

Christ Church served as a haven not only for students, but also for the faculty, staff, administration and local residents who call our parish home. Members of the diocesan staff and clergy from the diocese were quickly on site, answering phones and helping our parish staff to survive those first few days. The Sunday immediately following the shootings, Bishop Neff Powell preached and presided, a gesture that showed us both that we were not alone but also that the church was hurting with us.

Within days of the shootings, packages began to arrive from all over the world. Prayer flags, rosary beads, prayer shawls, banners, candles, handmade cards, origami paper cranes began to flood Canterbury House and the parish offices. Episcopal Relief and Development contacted us, asking, "How can we help?" It was almost overwhelming. We knew that God's people, everywhere, were praying for us.

Concern was, of course, directed at the students of our parish and the Canterbury House. The "moms" of Christ Church kept the students well supplied with comfort food and plenty of hugs. But soon I began to realize that in many ways, the faculty and staff were having a more difficult time "getting over it" than our students. While many students left Blacksburg to be with family and friends, those who work at Virginia Tech already were home, with nowhere else to go.

Once the media spotlight had shifted away to more breaking news, students began to emerge from their shells and share what they were feeling. Some just wanted to be left alone.

I have pondered the lessons of April 16. I know now, more than ever, how good God is, how important worship is -- drawing us out of our darkness and raising our eyes to the light Christ brings. I know now, more than ever, how important community is when we face such loss.

We remain a community in need of prayer. They say the first year is always the hardest. The first Christmas, the first round of birthdays, the first anniversary. A year on, many are still in shock; others regularly move in and out of the stages of grief. We hear sirens differently these days. I witnessed several students walk out of a film recently that featured graphic gun violence.

We are changed. I pray it is for the better.

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