Voices of Columbine: The Family of Cassie Bernall by Susan Besze Wallace Denver Post staff writer April 16, 2000 The simplicity of Las Lajas, Honduras, one of the poorest areas in the Western Hemisphere, has been a tonic to Brad and Misty Bernall. Here, there are no stares in the grocery store, no strangers showing up on their porch, no television replays bringing cruel reminders of how much they've lost. In Las Lajas, there are only reminders of how much they have. Brad, Misty and son Chris are drawn to the land where the Cassie Bernall Home for Children has risen amid lush green hills and banana trees and $3 daily wages. Cassie wanted to deliver babies for a living. So it seemed fitting, even in the numbness of the days after her murder, to give the new orphanage her name. The project, run by Christian missionaries from North Carolina, has become much more than a way to memorialize Cassie. "This has given us purpose. It's something concrete," Misty says. "The people are so warm and wonderful, yet they live in mud huts. They sing praise songs with guitar amplifiers hooked up to car batteries." "Our shed at home," Brad says, "is nicer than their churches." The Bernalls have acquired a bus that they hope area churches will help them fill with supplies unavailable in Honduras. But first, April 20 will see the dedication of the walls within which 75 orphans will be given love and safety. The Bernalls don't need to spend that day near the walls within which Cassie died. From home, they can always see the lights of Columbine High, and the lights of the shopping area where two more Columbine students were murdered in February at a Subway sandwich shop. Here is the yard where Brad stood with binoculars the night of April 20, straining for clues. Here stand the bunny cages where days later he fell to his knees in the snow, pleading with God for relief from the pain. Here lives the black kitty Cassie made her mother promise to take care of, should anything happen to her. Here is the bed where the 17-year-old wallowed every Saturday morning, likely to still be there, or at least in pajamas, into the afternoon. "Every day still starts with images of Cassie under a desk with a gun to her head," Brad says. "To this day it doesn't seem real." And yet the reality is that Cassie's death has touched millions, made her a teenage legend and given her parents both peace and pain they never imagined. Reports of Cassie's killer asking if she believed in God and then pulling the trigger when she said "yes" have circled the world. So has "She Said Yes: The Unlikely Martyrdom of Cassie Bernall," a book detailing the couple's successful spiritual battle with their daughter's suicide threats, murderous writings and dangerous friends. The award-winning tome spent five weeks on the New York Times best-seller list, has sold more than 468,000 copies and is being printed in Dutch, German, Korean, Portuguese and Italian. Christian pop star Michael W. Smith recorded "This Is Your Time" in Cassie's honor. A local church commissioned a screenplay and presented Cassie's story on stage; now "Crossroads at Columbine" travels around the country. Dozens of tribute-filled Web sites garner continual interest, screen after screen filled with praise, similar stories of teenage transformation and vows to be more Cassie-like. A woman from Waco, Texas, said she was planning to name her daughter after Brad and Misty's only girl. There are a few critics, too, people who feel the Bernalls wrote the book too soon or that the title was inappropriate given discrepancies in reports of who or perhaps how many said "yes" in reply to the two classmates who killed and maimed as they taunted their victims' faith in God. "We talked to kids who were there who are 100 percent sure," Misty says. "Either you believe what happened to Cassie or you don't. Some people are very cynical." The Bernalls have their own criticism - of the Jefferson County Sheriff's Office for releasing information to Time magazine about Cassie's death that they had been told was confidential. The Bernalls wrote their book to tell parents it was worth it to snoop, to move, to call the police, to do whatever it takes to keep your children safe. They didn't expect teens would be the ones flooding them with letters. Misty has replied - by hand, on notecards bearing a smiling picture of Cassie - to nearly 2,000. They wrote the book to speak for them. But last month Brad and Misty ventured before 25,000 people, most of them young, at a Church of God conference in Knoxville, Tenn. When a boy made it through security to tell Misty he'd "been headed down that same path, read the book and turned his life around," they knew it wouldn't be their last speaking engagement. "I think people get something out of hearing Cassie's story from Misty and me," Brad says. "It's new to us, but it's getting more comfortable." Cassie's story belongs to teenagers everywhere, but her parents are still enduring a private journey that changes daily. They still sit in the balcony of West Bowles Community Church every Sunday and expect to see her long blond hair somewhere among the sea of teens. Easter decor in stores makes Misty well up; that was their last holiday together. Between the stares of strangers and morbid photos on the covers of the tabloids, even grocery shopping can be unbearable. For Brad, one of his daughter's favorite songs can bring him to tears as he works out at the gym. Chris Bernall saw his sister through her dark days and his parents through their tough stances. Now he's alone amid a fierce protectiveness, one he understands but gets impatient with. "I am who I am. Cassie was who she was," says Chris, now home-schooled by his mom and a tutor. "I don't feel like I need to take her place or make up for her being gone." He and his big sister went snowboarding days before she was killed. "I guess I feel like she was my sister, but she really belonged to God. He put her in our family for us to learn from for a while. I think I'm at peace with that." Chris' peace is of utmost concern to his mom and dad. The Subway shootings made him mad, combative, and the whole family felt they lost something more. Brad and Misty took a rose to the makeshift memorial at the Subway, and ended up comforting a sobbing boy who had no idea who they were. Misty has been anxious to leave the area's horrible memories but doesn't want to feel forced out; Brad doesn't like the thought of someone else living in Cassie's room. But Chris is settled here, very involved with the West Bowles Community Church youth group that meant so much to his sister. So they wait. "I see Cassie everywhere in the house, and it's good for me," Brad says. "If we move, are we going to feel like we left her behind?" Holding on or moving on. They want to do both. Their minds still wander back to Cassie's request not to go to school April 20. She said she was tired. The second-guessing is hard to stop. Wherever her parents live, they know Cassie will live in their hearts. And in the old West Bowles steeple being renovated into a youth center in her name. And on the Web. And among youth groups and on bookshelves across the world. And in a new two-story building in Honduras that, this summer, 75 orphaned children will be able to call home. Copyright 2000 The Denver Post. All rights reserved.