Last night, I attended an interfaith prayer gathering for the victims of this week’s shooting at the Islamic Center of San Diego, which is just four miles from our home. A huge crowd came and was still arriving even 45 minutes late — I couldn’t park within half a mile, and it was getting worse. It was fantastic to see such a large and diverse group pouring in from all over, and the Muslims among us seemed to gain succor from each other and from this outpouring of support.

Mixed in with the prayers from all sorts of clergy, a comment from one speaker struck me: “CNN isn’t here. If the roles had been reversed and two Muslim teens had shot a Christian church, they’d be here with 24-hour coverage.”

A teenage Muslim girl standing next to me brought 3 bundles of flowers, which she planned to give each bereaved family afterwards… if she could get close enough.

The tiny stage and sound system made it clear they were not expecting anything like this crowd which converged just 30 hours after the gunfire. I decided to leave early because it was so hard to hear, plus I knew that traffic afterwards would be a disaster on those narrow neighborhood streets; and I guessed that somebody who hadn’t even arrived yet would probably love my parking spot. Sure enough, I was able to guide a woman wearing a hijab to where I had parked and left her the spot. 

I drove away through various side streets, and when I was five or six long blocks away from the event, I drove past a young family just then walking toward the park. They were dressed in full length Islamic formal attire and had three children under age 5 in tow, including one in a stroller/carseat. I turned back around and asked if they could use a ride to the prayer gathering. Knowing they might be on edge, I explained, “You’re quite late, but the gathering is still going on… but you really should get there soon.“ The mother wasn’t sure about this offer from a stranger, but her husband felt he could trust me, so she and the three little ones all clamored into the backseat while dad rode upfront. He explained that the reason they were late was because they had driven for two hours to get there, all the way from Riverside. “But it’s worth it to be here in support,” he said. His wife chimed in, “We just want to feel safe again.”

Thankfully, I was able to get them quite close to the venue, and when they got out, the father was effusive in his thanks. He asked my name and said he wouldn’t forget me and would pray for me. I recognized the tone of those who feel under siege. We both expressed our shared commitment to the dignity of all people.

Now I was stuck in traffic, but when I passed them, three nuns were fussing over their lovely children. Maybe they never got to the gathering on time, but I hope they were swallowed up in the love and solidarity of the attendees.

I marveled that, as it turned out, I hadn’t “left early” at all, but at the perfect time.

And as I drove away, a song began repeating in my head which we had sung on Sunday:

Where there is hurt, let us know the ache… 

The ache of being one, one with the body of love, one with the body of love

The ache in your heart is holy

The ache in your heart is good 

The ache in your heart is the ache of being one, one with the body of love, one with the body of love

Amid tragedy, here was a place of love and solidarity beyond sectarianism, of bearing one another’s burdens, one another’s aches.

Cory

May 2026