On late-August mornings in the Windom neighborhood, the soundscape is usually familiar and comforting. Cicadas buzz, sparrows dart between yards, neighbors trade easy greetings across tidy sidewalks and the Annunciation Catholic Church's bells peal across southwest Minneapolis, calling parishioners to Mass as they have for more than a century. For generations, the church and its adjoining school have served as Windom's anchor — the site of weddings, baptisms, bake sales, Boy Scout Christmas tree lots and the ever-popular SeptemberFest featuring pie, live music and an outdoor Mass. If you didn't attend Annunciation, someone close to you surely did. That sense of constancy was shattered Wednesday morning when a former student opened fire during the first school Mass of the year, spraying bullets through prismatic stained glass into pews packed with children. In an instant, prayers gave way to panic. Children as young as pre-K ran for cover, dove beneath pews or clutched their classmates as teachers shielded them from the barrage, acting instinctively to protect them. "Our teachers were heroes," Annunciation Catholic School Principal Matt DeBoer said. "Children were ducked down. Adults were protecting children. Older children were protecting younger children." By the time the shooting ended,two children– ages 8 and 10 – were killed. Eighteen others were wounded, including 15 students and three parishioners in their 80s. Police identified the now-deceased shooter as 23-year-oldRobin Westman, a former Annunciation student whose mother once worked at the parish. The violence has left the century-old Catholic institution – long considered a bedrock of faith, family and education – reeling. Generations of alumni and parishioners are now struggling to comprehend how the church that baptized them, married them and educated their children became the site of such devastation. The shooting has devastated families whose lives have been intertwined with Annunciation for generations. For more than a century, the church's bells have marked the rhythm of life here. Generations of families have celebrated first communions under its vaulted ceiling. The accompanying school, opened in 1923, became a place where children grew up surrounded by teachers and classmates who often felt more like extended family. Alumna Maureen Cunniff's parents first fell in love at the school: Her father once slipped her mother a locket in the parking lot when they were middle schoolers. They later married in the church during a blizzard. Cunniff, her twin daughters and her sister all attended Annunciation. Since hearing about the shooting, Cunniff has been crying on and off. "It just was like a huge injury to that sanctity of the community that we've been a part of for so many years," said 48-year-old Cunniff, whose family has ties to Annunciation stretching back seven decades. As news spread, alumni, parents and neighbors streamed to vigils across the city. There were too many people to fit inside one church, said John Kisling, 54, a lifelong member whose daughters recently graduated from the school. "That speaks to how strong the community is and how much people are really there for each other," Kisling said. Michele Faherty, another community member who was baptized at Annunciation and whose father led the school board, said the shooting stripped away a sense of safety: "It's so upsetting to think that we as parents and as human beings can't feel safe in a place where we should feel safe." And Kailee Poling, 27, who attended Annunciation through eighth grade, broke down at a vigil Wednesday night as she clutched her infant daughter, saying "you don't think it's gonna happen in your community." "Being a parent, I just can't imagine what those kids went through," the new mother said through tears. "Annunciation is such a tight-knit community … I was just really impacted knowing that it's so close to home." For Kisling, the shooting touched almost every corner of his life. On Wednesday, he walked the neighborhood with his daughters, checking in on his mother and neighbors. He grew up near Annunciation, attended the school from kindergarten through eighth grade and later sent both his girls there. "We've been a part of this community for 50-some years," he said. "We never, ever had anything like this happen." Annunciation wasn't just a school – it was a lifeline of fundraisers, garage sales, potlucks and parish traditions. Kisling still keeps in touch with friends he made there decades ago. His daughters, Audrey and Riley, are recent alumni who attended mission trips and summer camps run by the school. "Everybody looks out for everybody," Kisling said. "If you need something, somebody's there to help you. And that's few and far between in the way that the world is right now." That sense of trust was shattered Wednesday. The shooting, he said, was "organized, targeted." His younger daughter barely slept that night. "All that I can do is give her a hug and say, 'Everything's going to be OK. This is a one-time thing. It just unfortunately had to be our time,'" he said. But Kisling also voiced a plea: "These assault weapons need to go away … We're lucky that 100 kids didn't lose their lives, and it was only two. But that's still not a number that I'm OK with." "Those little kids had dreams," he said. Even those with looser ties to Annunciation were shaken. The attack had pierced not only the windows of the church but also the foundation of a neighborhood that has long considered Annunciation its anchor. In the hours after the attack, neighbors gathered on sidewalks and near memorials, offering hugs and prayers. Luke Anderson, 20, grew up biking to the church after school from nearby Anthony Middle, shooting hoops behind the church gym. On Wednesday, he pulled a red Radio Flyer wagon stacked with ice water, doughnuts and popsicles for shaken children and families. "It made me feel something to see a kid smile after all of that," he said, eyes welling. Nearby, University of Minnesota student Hudson Grand, 22, stood outside the church with a bouquet of pink daisies in hand. He had come to the neighborhood to visit his grandfather at a nearby care home, but found himself transfixed by the grief emanating from the parish. He stared at the school through tears. "Even though I don't know anyone there, this happens too often. But to have it this close, just really hits home," Grand said. Annunciation Catholic Church, once designated as the safe evacuation site for students during emergencies at the school next door, became a place of loss instead. Annunciation had long prepared for emergencies. The school had drilled children regularly on lockdowns at the school and kept doors secured during the day – measures that officials believe prevented the carnage from escalating further. "A number of the doors had been locked once Mass began, which is part of their normal procedure," Minneapolis Police Chief Brian O'Hara said. "We believe that this step also played a part in ensuring this tragedy did not become that much worse." Students' muscle memory from lockdown drills kicked in. Some instinctively ducked, covered their classmates or followed teachers' directions. Audrey Kisling, 16, recalls lockdown drills when she was a student – though she never imagined they would be needed in church. "I was never worried about anything like that," she said. For many, the trauma remains fresh and overwhelming. Vincent Francoual said his11-year-old daughter survived the attackbut is so shaken she doesn't want to return to school or church. "She thought she was going to die," he said. Annunciation now joins a list of schools and churches forever altered by gun violence. The massacre was the 44th school shooting in the US this year, according to aCNN analysis, and one of more than 280 mass shootings nationwide. It comes three years after the killing of 19 children and two teachers inUvalde, Texas, and more than 12 years after the massacre atSandy Hook Elementaryin Newtown, Connecticut. Chaplain Howard Dotson, who helped counsel families in Uvalde after the 2022 school massacre, arrived to comfort parents. "We've had too many of these," he said. "I've seen too many tears. I'm tired of seeing moms lose their children." Outside the church, mourners placed teddy bears, handwritten notes and flowers at a growing memorial for the two children killed. Some are from classmates of the slain children – tiny scrawled messages of farewell to friends they will never see again. One note read: "I'm so sorry, it wasn't fair. R.I.P." The parish has not yet announced when classes will resume, and children have already lost treasured traditions like spirit day and the butterfly release. The church doors are temporarily closed for parishioners, preventing them from hearing the sounds of hymns and children's voices that normally fill the sanctuary. For now, Mass will be held in the auditorium of the school. Minnesota Gov. Tim Walz has ordered additional state patrol officers to help safeguard schools and places of worship. But as grief ripples through the community, neighbors are clinging to one another for comfort. "I was walking around the neighborhood with my dog, and I got neighbors stopping, hugging us," Francoual said. Though the tragedy has left scars that may never fully heal, parishioners say the bonds of their tight-knit community will not be broken. "We won't allow this evil act to take away from the value and the power of community that is what brings everyone back together to heal," Cunniff said. The Windom neighborhood still hums with late-August cicadas and sparrows, the sounds of summer carrying on as always. But now, the church bells ring with a different weight, marking grief alongside faith. For the families of Annunciation, the community remains strong – but it will never be the same. CNN's Alicia Wallace and Arit John reported from Minneapolis, and Dalia Faheid reported from Los Angeles. For more CNN news and newsletters create an account atCNN.com
