By Father David Epps

Last Monday evening, the Autumn quietness of a Buckhead neighborhood was shattered by the violent sounds of gunfire and, in a heartbeat, a 28-year old Atlanta police officer, John Richard "Rick" Sowa, lay dead and his partner, ten-year veteran Patricia Cocciolone, lay near him with gunshot wounds to the back of her head and her torso.

The sixteen rifle shots fired at the officers were unexpected as the officers approached the apartment on what, by any standards, was a routine call. Officer Sowa had been married only sixteen months to Danielle, his high school sweetheart. He had said that the day he became an Atlanta police officer was the second greatest day in his life, the best day being his marrige to Danielle. He had lived his dream for less than three years. Officer Cocciolone, 38, now lies in a Grady Hospital room clinging to life, her friends and family keeping vigil in a private waiting room.

Incidents like this are the reason that I pray, nearly every day, for the officers of our community. Or, perhaps, I pray because I've served as a police chaplain, in my community, for the past eight years and know most of the officers by name and have met many of their husbands, wives, and children. Maybe it's because I have two sons who are police officers and I know that they ride with danger and the possibility of violence every shift.

Or maybe it's the remembrance of the sermon I preached at the funeral of my dear friend, a police officer, killed one cold and unforgettable December day. Or the face of an officer I visited in an Atlanta hospital the day after he had been shot in the neck by a juvenile one dark night as he was investigating a situation. Paralyzed now from the waist down, he had been an officer less than six weeks. Maybe, because I, too, have completed the training at the police academy, am more aware than most of the dangers that lurk, am a sworn and certified officer, and have been with officers on those dangerous streets, I am overly aware and sensitized. In any event, I know that 65,000 police officers every year are assaulted and nearly 200 of those are killed on America's streets and in our country's neighborhoods. Some of those will be in crime-ridden slums, many will be on America's roads and highways, and still others will be in affulent, upscale neighborhoods.

So I pray for our men and women who put their very lives on the line every single day. Each day, they pull on their protective vests, button their shirts, arm themselves with handguns, batons, and pepper gas and hope that it will be enough should the unthinkable happen. They kiss their spouses, hug their children, and walk out the door to serve and to protect the public. And nearly every day, a sheriff or a police chief, along with the chaplain, will visit one of these modest homes. The smiling, unsuspecting spouse will open the door and, in seconds, the numbing, horrifying, terrible truth will forever mark this day as the day when daddy or mommy did not come home anymore, forever.

Today, a multitude of officers from dozens, perhaps scores, of agencies will crowd into the funeral of Rick Sowa. They will wear black bands of grief across their badges and will try to swallow that tight, constricting feeling in their throats. They will blink hard to combat the wetness in their eyes and will clear their throats to try to keep from crying, these hard, street-wise, men and women. The minister will do his best to serve as a symbol that God has not abandoned them and will try to help make sense of it all. Officers will present a hand salute to a fallen brother, a rifle salute will be sounded that will serve as a reminder of both honor and of the shattering horror that occured last Monday. Bagpipes will play the saddest version of "Amazing Grace" ever heard, a bugle will offer the mournful sound of taps, and an American flag will be removed from the casket, folded by an elite honor guard, and presented to an all too young and fragile Danielle who will wonder for all her days why anyone would ever choose to be a police officer.

The ceremony at the cemetary will end and hundreds, maybe thousands, of the officers in attendance will walk silently from this sad scene, get in their cars and drive away. Out of sight of the cemetary, they will pull over, open the trunk of the patrol car, take off their uniform shirt, and pull on their protective vest. As they button their shirt and tuck it in, most of them will pray for Rick, asking God to receive his warrior's soul. They will pray for Danielle and the uncertain future she faces. They will pray for Patricia Cocciolone and beg for her life and recovery. And they will pray for themselves. They will pray that God will continue to give them integrity, compassion, and courage. And they will plead that God will give them His protection and that He will, please God , let them go home tonight. And before the shift is over, somewhere, in some town or city, another will fall. This is why I pray.

Father David Epps is Rector of Christ the King Church in Peachtree City, Georgia and is National Director of Law Enforcement Chaplaincy for the Charismatic Episcopal Church. He serves as a chaplain for several police agencies and is an adjunct instructor at a police academy, where he teaches ethics, tactical baton, and defensive tactics. He may be contacted at FrDaveEpps@aol.com.