How one church is helping heal Newtown

"Families or women walking in with children would be swarmed by the press, and I would literally go out to save them," says Jay Thomas, chair of the church's staff-parish relations committee. "We would put ourselves between the press and those people."

The buffering mission focused the restless energy of men like Steve Agnew, a General Electric IT project manager and a leader for the church's Boy Scout troop. From 9 a.m. to midnight on the day after the shooting, he escorted guests to and from their cars while others kept the media out of the church.

"Natural disasters don't offend our sense of trust as much as human-caused disasters do," says Mary Hughes Gaudreau, a disaster response consultant with the United Methodist Committee on Relief, which dispatched her to help out in Newtown. Without buildings to gut or rubble to move, she says, people can feel helpless until they find a constructive outlet.

While trustees policed the boundaries, congregants trained as counselors by Stephen Ministries, a St. Louis-based Christian support group, welcomed guests who needed to talk or pray with someone. For anyone who wasn't sure what to do, Treasurer Amy Thomas would find a task.

"Sort boxes, take out the trash – do something," she told people. "Having something to do when you don't know what to do is good therapy."

Donations pouring in from around the world gave the church members hope – and occupied time. The first of 320 boxes – filled with teddy bears, prayer shawls, and other comforting items – started arriving within days. Hundreds of cards needed to be opened and shared. A Mennonite delivered seven handwritten letters from the shooting-scarred Amish community of Nickel Mines, Pa., to the church. Then a few days before Christmas, a state trooper dropped off a flame, representing Christ as the light of the world, from the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem in the West Bank.

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While lay leaders kept the church open, Kawakami visited those shaken most by the tragedy. Driving to the Kowalskis' home, he passed house after house where state troopers were now stationed around the clock. For him, troopers' vehicles were "signs that something terrible had happened in that family. And they were everywhere."

The Kowalskis' driveway was filled with visitors' cars. Kawakami joined the crowd sharing condolences. Once again, no words could suffice, he says. All he could offer was his presence and the assurance of God's as well.

While church members sought solace and healing in acts of service, they had not yet reckoned with changes emerging in themselves. But raw emotions and reassessments were evident when the congregation came together in worship.

On Sunday, Dec. 16, the church was packed as 471 worshipers – more than three times the usual number – squeezed into two services. Hymns drew tears, as did the moment when young children gathered near the altar for a message. Kawakami's sermon included themes of God's comfort in times of trial and the need, ultimately, to forgive, but he assured them, "I'm not ready to do that yet."

During Communion, co-lay leader Wendy Leon-Gambetta held the chalice, as she had many Sundays before. But this time was different. When she looked into the eyes of parishioners who came forward one by one – a first responder, a Sandy Hook teacher, a school bus driver with one less passenger on her bus – she realized the Sacrament had taken on new meaning. She felt a new gravity in the solemn words she spoke to each one: "This is the blood of Christ shed for you."

"I'd pull myself together, and then there would be someone who had been there at the school, or someone with small children," says Ms. Leon-Gambetta. "We all felt so vulnerable.... Communion was the affirmation of faith. God is still here. We are still standing."

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