The front door rattled in its frame, and my eyes shot toward it.
Was someone trying to get in? What if an intruder came in and attacked us? We were completely defenseless. We could all be killed.
I surveyed the living and dining rooms.
This wouldn’t do. It was too easy for someone to get in. I couldn’t rest if I didn’t feel safe. I took a dining-room chair and wedged it under the doorknob.
That was better, but not good enough.
I got up and pulled a small end table in front of the door. Then I stacked another chair on top of it, and a stool on top of that. I kept piling furniture in front of the door until I felt it would be impossible for anyone to surprise me in the middle of the night.
Finally I retreated to the couch.
As I sat there, a cool draft blew through one of the window frames. I shivered and wrapped myself in a blanket.
But it was too quiet. I was convinced that every noise I heard was someone trying to break into the house. Someone coming to kill me.
I got up and turned on the TV. I tuned it to my favorite channel, The Discovery Channel, and set the volume up loud enough to mask the other noises. Then I lay on my couch and kept my eyes fixed on the front door.
I was afraid to go to sleep. The last time I went to bed at home and turned off the lights, I woke up to gunfire. I did not intend to let that happen again. So I didn’t sleep; I kept watch.
The next morning, Mary gave me a strange look when she came out for breakfast and found me sitting up. Then she saw my makeshift barricade.
“Terry, are you all right?”
I shook my head.
She smiled. “It’s okay to barricade the door at night if it helps.”
It helped—a little.
The next morning, after Mary and Mike left for work and the girls went to school, I took out my prescription bottles. The direction on the pain-medication bottle said to take one pill. I took two or three. I doubled the dosage of my antidepressant and anti-anxiety drugs, too. Then I spent the day in a drug-induced stupor.
It was the only way I knew how to cope.
I didn’t dare go to sleep at night, but in the daytime, the grief was overwhelming. So Xanax, Lexapro, and Zoloft became my friends. They dulled my grief and helped me sleep. At night, I built barricades and kept watch like a terrified soldier on the front lines of a hellish war.
The next day, I’d start all over again.
This is no way to live, I thought.
But truth be told, I didn’t want to live. I had fought to survive the night we were attacked only so I could tell someone that Charlie Wilkinson had murdered my family. I had expected to die once I had done that.
But something went wrong. God didn’t take me.
I had been shot multiple times. How could anybody live through that? Someone told me I was a lucky man. If one of the bullets had been a millimeter to the left, it would have severed an artery, and I would have bled to death. If another bullet had ricocheted a little differently, it would have penetrated my brain and killed me. Yes, indeed, I was lucky to be alive.
But I didn’t feel lucky. My survival felt to me like a huge mistake.
I should have died with my family.
I wanted to die and join them.
I looked at the bottles holding my meds on top of the end table by the couch. There were certainly enough pills there to get the job done.
It was something to think about.
Chapter 10
Suicidal
Why is light given to him who suffers,
And life to the bitter of soul,
Who long for death, but there is none,
And dig for it more than for hidden treasures?
—JOB 3:20-I
DURING MY FIRST WEEK out of the hospital, my routine quickly became a habit. Every night I stacked chairs, stools, and whatever other furniture I could find against the front door. Then I retreated to my couch, turned on The Discovery Channel, and watched the front door. When dawn came, I medicated myself enough to allow me to sleep through the day. My entire world revolved around a sofa that was not much bigger than a coffin. I guess that was appropriate; my life had shriveled into a living death.
Physically, I was well along the road to recovery. My right arm was still in a sling, and that limited me somewhat. I found it difficult to put on a shirt or a jacket. But these were minor aggravations.
My mind and spirit were another matter.
I’d always been told that God never gave us burdens too heavy to bear. Now I wasn’t sure that was true anymore. He had certainly laid a crushing burden on me, and I didn’t think I could bear it much longer. I couldn’t understand how or why a loving God would let something like this happen to my family. It made no sense. All things work together for good to those who love God? I couldn’t see how.
I couldn’t see any possible way that good could come from Penny and the boys being murdered. Losing them hurt so badly I couldn’t stand it. I felt as if someone had reached deep inside me and ripped out my heart.
At night, sitting on that couch with nothing to do and nowhere to go, I found myself constantly confronted by the reality of my new “life.”
I would never again hug Penny or hold her close.
Never again would I help her in the kitchen. Sip coffee with her at the kitchen table. Eat her home cooking.
Penny would never give me another send-off to work, as she’d done every day for nineteen years. She wouldn’t welcome me back when I came home.
I’d never go fishing with my boys again. Or lie on the floor with Tyler and play with his Hot Wheels cars.
Matthew and I would never do another harmonica duet. Or go hiking together.
We’d never stand around the piano as a family and sing while Penny’s fingers pounded out a song on the keyboard.
I’d never hold my grandchildren.
If all that weren’t enough, there was Erin, my precious daughter.
The sheriff ’s department had said that she masterminded this horrible crime, that she was behind it all. I refused to believe that. I would never believe it. But that didn’t change the fact that she was gone too. Even though Erin was still here on this earth, I’d lost my daughter, too.
The load God had given me to carry was killing me.
I was a Christian. I believed in God. I had trusted in Jesus Christ as my Savior. I knew deep down in my heart that God was real, that He was out there. I’d even been planning to serve Him in ministry.
But now I felt as if God had abandoned me. I had stumbled through dark woods as I fled my burning house. Now my life was a dark forest of grief and pain, and I was still stumbling.
From my way of thinking, God had taken away everything and everyone who was important to me. Why should I try to go on living? I was only forty-one years old. I couldn’t face another thirty or forty years of life without my family. So as I sat on that lonely couch night after night, I sank deeper and deeper into despair. And I began to think about ending my life.
I considered a number of options but dismissed most of them as unworkable. I didn’t want anyone to think something was wrong and try to stop me.
My property was isolated. Better yet, it was so thick with trees that you couldn’t see much from the road. I could go there and be relatively certain that I would have the time and privacy I needed. Besides, since I wanted to join my family in heaven, it seemed only fitting that I die where Penny and the boys had died.
Slowly the idea began to take shape in my mind. I would have to wait until after the funeral at least. This was partly out of respect for Penny and the boys and partly for practical reasons. I needed more time to heal before I’d be well enough to travel to the property by myself.
I didn’t think about the impact my suicide might have on Erin, or Mary, or Tommy and Helen. I knew it was selfish, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to stop the agonizing grief and the fear.
I had made up my mind and had a plan. I didn’t know exac
tly when I would carry it out. But one thing was certain: I wouldn’t wait long.
Chapter 11
Funeral
I have eaten ashes like bread
And mingled my drink with weeping.
—PSALM I02:9
I DREADED THE THOUGHT of the funeral.
The service had to be delayed for two weeks because Penny’s and the boys’ bodies were still in Dallas for autopsies. That was just as well. It gave me more time to heal from the gunshot wounds. I was discharged from the hospital on March 7. If we’d had the funeral the next day, it would have been a lot harder on me physically.
Emotionally, the extra week probably didn’t make any difference. Because of the fire, we’d need to have a closed-casket service. I wouldn’t even get the opportunity to see my wife and sons one last time. I wouldn’t be able to say good-bye—at least not the way I wanted to. But that’s not the only reason I dreaded the funeral.
I would have to face a lot of people that day. Up until then, my primary means of coping was hiding. But at the funeral, I wouldn’t be able to deny my grief. I couldn’t curl up in a ball on Mary’s couch and hide from the world. I couldn’t escape. It was going to be an excruciating day that ultimately brought no closure. All the funeral would do for me was to remind me that when everything was said and done, I would have to start over. I’d have to begin a new life— one without my family.
I was in no shape to plan a funeral service. My pastor, Brother Todd McGahee, and others stepped in and took that burden from me. Someone donated the caskets and burial plots, and the funeral was held at Miracle Faith Baptist Church, where we were members.
The week before the funeral, Rick Rumfelt, a friend of mine who was also a pastor, brought Penny’s parents up to my sister’s to get my input. As we discussed the arrangements, I wanted to make sure that the funeral service would not be sad. Penny and the boys knew the Lord, and I knew they were in heaven.
“Just keep it upbeat,” I said. “I want us to celebrate their lives, not mourn their deaths.”
Other than suggesting some of the music and selecting pallbearers, I left the rest of the details and planning to Rick and to my pastor, Todd.
Because it was a long drive from Mary’s house to Emory, where the funeral would be held, Penny’s parents invited me to spend the night before the funeral with them. They lived only a few miles from the church, so I wouldn’t have to spend a lot of time riding in a car the next day. I welcomed anything that would make that day shorter and easier to get through. So on Friday, Mary drove me down to Emory and dropped me off at Larry and Virginia’s.
MY LONGEST DAY
Saturday, March 15, was a perfect spring day in North Texas. Sunny and unseasonably warm, with a crystal clear sky, it was the kind of day that demanded outdoor activity. Matthew and Tyler would have been outside early on a day like this. But in spite of the sunshine, my spirit was as dark as the day was bright. The moment I climbed out of bed, I wanted the day to be over.
A funeral is a sad occasion, but it is also supposed to be the time when healing begins and when the bereaved can think about moving forward. I expected no healing to come from this service, and I didn’t want to move forward. I hadn’t chosen this new life—the selfishness and cruelty of two young men had forced it upon me. And although I knew that many people would try to comfort me today, I didn’t expect to finish the day feeling comforted.
About seven thirty that morning, I heard a knock at Larry and Virginia’s door. The funeral was scheduled for one o’clock. Who could be showing up this early? I wondered.
A teenage boy about Erin’s age stood on the doorstep, and just seeing him there lifted my spirits.
James Jones had been a member of our youth group a few years earlier when Penny and I served as youth directors at Miracle Faith. I had led him to the Lord at summer camp and then baptized him a little later. In the years since, this young man had become like a son to us.
It was something of a surprise to see him there, but I invited him in, and we sat down in the living room. After a little small talk, we just sat quietly.
James sat with me all morning, from seven thirty until it was time for us to leave for the church, and in those five hours he ministered to me more than he will ever know. He offered no eloquent words of comfort or wisdom. He just sat with me.
When it was time to get dressed for the service, I asked James to help me put on my shirt. My arm was still in a sling, and the surgery to remove the bullets from my shoulder had left me stiff and sore. Even something as simple as putting on a shirt was difficult.
As James helped me, he started to cry. Tears spilled down his cheeks as he guided my wounded arm through the sleeve. He wept as he buttoned my shirt and helped me finish getting dressed.
That morning, a sixteen-year-old boy gave me a master class in how to minister to grieving people. He did more just by sitting quietly with me than he ever could have done by offering words of comfort. James’s tears spoke volumes.
Because Penny’s parents lived so close to the church, we didn’t need to leave until just a few minutes before the service. At about twelve forty-five, Larry, Virginia, and I piled into their car for the short drive to Miracle Faith Baptist Church. James rode with us and, at my request, would sit with the family.
“I wonder if the media will be there,” Larry said as we drove along.
I certainly hoped they wouldn’t be. The day was going to be difficult enough without the presence of satellite trucks, reporters, photographers, and camera crews.
Pastor McGahee had done everything he could to keep the funeral from becoming a media circus. When any reporters or news outlets called, he told them that the family wanted to keep the funeral private and that he hoped they would respect our wishes by not coming. We didn’t even allow Penny’s and the boys’ obituaries to be printed in the local newspaper until after the service.
As we drove along, we passed a man mowing his lawn, other people out in their yards, children playing. More people going about their daily lives, completely unaware that my world had been destroyed. As we turned the corner and the church came into view, the sight took my breath away.
The church’s parking lot was overflowing. Many more cars lined the road. No media in sight, but more people than I could ever have imagined. My heart was overwhelmed. I wondered if the church could even hold all the people.
To think all these people are here for Penny and the boys.
We drove under the carport at Miracle Faith’s side entrance, where a wheelchair waited. I climbed into it and was wheeled into the building.
I heard quiet strains of country gospel music in the background as we rolled down the hallway toward the auditorium doors.
MEMORIAL
“I want to walk in,” I said. “I want to walk in for Penny and the boys.”
Someone helped me to my feet, and I walked unsteadily toward the door. We waited until the funeral director gave us the signal that it was time for the service to begin. Then he opened the door, and with someone on each side of me, I walked forward.
I had barely made it through the door when I saw three silver-gray caskets directly in front of me, lined up end to end in front of the platform.
My legs went out from under me, and I would have collapsed had it not been for those around me, holding me up. Larry and Virginia helped me to the front pew, where I sat down, crushed with grief. There I sat, only a few feet from my wife’s and sons’ caskets. The sight was absolutely overwhelming. It hammered home the awful reality that I had desperately been trying to force to the back of my mind.
Penny’s casket was in the middle, and it held an 8 x 10 photo of her. Matthew was on her right and Tyler on her left. Photos of the boys stood on their caskets, too. Behind them, even the choir loft was filled with mourners.
Once we were seated, another country gospel song began to stream through the church’s speaker system. Seconds later, Penny’s voice filled the auditorium. I began to cry as I heard
my wife singing and playing the piano. I knew the song well. It was a recording of Penny and The Gaston Family Singers performing a song called “Take That First Step.” I could almost see her sitting at the church’s piano as the words of that song drifted through my mind.
I hadn’t taken any medication that day because I wanted my head to be clear when I met and visited with people. But I was so numb from grief and depression that I remember very little of what went on. My friend Pastor Rick Rumfelt gave the eulogy. He told stories about the family, and his tone and words were very comforting. Then Pastor Todd McGahee stood to deliver the main message.
I was so proud of Todd. This was a terrible situation for even a seasoned pastor to face—this was Todd’s first church, and he had been a pastor for less than a year. But he managed to keep his message upbeat and triumphant. Several times he reminded the congregation that Penny and the boys were more alive right now than they were when they had been with us on earth.
One thing I do remember is what Todd said about Matthew. He read two entries from Matthew’s journal, written only about a month before Matthew died. One was Matthew’s opinion about what a perfect day would be like:
FEBRUARY 1, 2008
My perfect day would be when the sky is clear and the sun’s shining and everything seems to come my way. Most of the time that is not so, but when days like that come along they seem perfect. I like pretty weather so that I can go outside and enjoy the [sic] nature. That would be my perfect day.
The other entry showed Matthew’s musical side:
JANUARY 23, 2008
My favorite song is Sweet Home Alabama by Lynyrd Skynrd [sic]. Why I like this song is because it talks about home. I also like the rythem [sic] and ryme [sic] of country-rock songs. When I listen to that song I feel great and listening to the guitars in the song makes me want to learn more. I love that song.
Terror by Night Page 8
