The murders at Emanuel must be fitted into the long and tangled history of race relations, racial violence and oppression that stem from America’s original sin. And as the months have passed, the survivors of Emanuel and others in Charleston have continued to search for the meaning of this story, through a process that is intensely personal and sometimes uncomfortably public.Īt the heart of that struggle are two complicated subjects: history and forgiveness. Hairline fissures in a wide network of relationships have burst under the pressures of sudden fame and grinding grief. Church members have felt abandoned by their congregation. In the wake of the murders, families have split over the question of forgiveness. And anger abides, even if the frank acknowledgment of it is now off script. The dead are still dead, and sleepless nights of sorrow drag on. But a story so freighted with shock and pain doesn’t end like a Hollywood movie, with the President singing and a divisive symbol coming down as the music swells. Yet there are all kinds of stories, including true and tragic and momentous ones like this. Clementa Pinckney and shifted into song: “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound …” Blacks and whites filled the miles-long Ravenel Bridge in a show of unity, and within days the most contentious public symbol of South Carolina’s Civil War past, the Confederate battle flag, was removed from the state capitol grounds with relatively little of the controversy that had surrounded it for decades. President Obama was swept up by the feeling during his eulogy for slain Emanuel pastor the Rev. The brief televised hearing electrified the country. Hear Anthony Thompson talk about what comes next But the air is soft with the melancholy of autumn now, the pain is more of a vise and less of a dagger, and what he chooses to remember-if memory is even a choice-is Myra radiant just beyond his helpless reach, and the door closing. ![]() Perhaps he would have talked about these things four months ago, when summer was coming down thick and sweaty over Charleston and that day was still a jagged wound. He doesn’t mention the fear, the anguish, the shock. He doesn’t mention his frantic dash up Calhoun Street through the jam of police cruisers with their lights flashing, or the cop hurrying over to stop him, or the detective blocking his path and saying something about a very fluid situation. This scene doesn’t figure in Anthony’s account of that day, though he speaks of June 17 at length while his crab cake sits untouched on the plate in front of him. I advised him that he would not be able to enter the church at this time and that the situation was very fluid.” I tried to speak with the gentleman, who said that his wife, Myra Thompson … was located inside of the church. But before he could return, Anthony heard the door close and she was gone.įrom a report by Detective Eric Tuttle of the Charleston police department: “I arrived at the incident location, 110 Calhoun Street, at about 21:40 hours … I then observed a black male running toward the church as a patrolman tried to intervene. When Myra called out that it was time for her to leave for church, he shouted back to her: Wait. After that frozen moment, Anthony had something to do in another room of the house. He tells this calmly, but with intensity. I couldn’t make myself reach out to her.” “She was glowing, and I wanted to reach out and touch her, but for some reason, I just couldn’t. I don’t know how else to put it,” he says. That’s the word.” Everything was just so in the Thompson house, spotless, gleaming. ![]() That day (the day he did not kiss her goodbye) was a humid day in June when Myra asked Anthony to review her Bible-study plans for what seemed like the hundredth time. So he was content to enjoy the hours they spent discussing Scripture and commiserating over the often wayward, headstrong creatures they were given to shepherd. Anthony hoped that he could persuade her to leave the African Methodist Episcopal Church, but he soon realized she was too loyal. ![]() Later, Myra felt the Lord’s summons to become a minister too. Anthony answered a midlife calling to become a priest in the Reformed Episcopal Church. They shared a strong Christian faith that was the foundation of their lives. They shared interests too, and the pastimes they did not share, they cheerfully tolerated. In restaurants-like the place downtown where he’s sitting and talking now, for instance-he and his wife shared their plates. When she thought he was being prideful, she said so: “Who do you think you are?” Another was mutual respect: they trusted and believed in each other enough to speak honestly. This was one reason for their resilient marriage. A grieving church struggles with the spotlightĪnthony and Myra Thompson never let much time pass without sharing an affectionate touch or warm embrace.Will the accused killer get the death penalty?.
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