There’s something endearing about the warm, savory flavors of a Thai soup. The small hole-in-the-wall restaurant that I’m admittedly addicted to and visit so frequently has a delectable version.

It’s what brought my friend and I out on what would have been a regular Wednesday evening. Located on a busy Lewiston street corner in the same neighborhood as our major hospital, it’s not uncommon to hear sirens while enjoying the delicacies here. I took a soothing first sip of that never-too-spicy broth and saw the first police car race by with its sirens screaming. And then another. And another. And another. And it didn’t stop.

Unsettled, we pulled up local community pages on social media and saw reports of an active shooter. We began listening to a local fire/EMS scanner online and then bore witness to the horrors unfolding around us. We locked the doors, turned off the lights, and hunkered down. We remained in collective silence for hours, acutely aware of the real possibility that we could be shot next, until at long last police evacuated us.

This experience, of course, pales in comparison to those of our neighbors just around the corner.

Calling it a slaughter may sound extreme, but it’s regrettably fitting. The war zone-like carnage that was bestowed upon our city was indeed horrific and graphic and traumatizing and all similar words.

My purpose here is not to highlight the unconscionable terror, but I would be remiss if I did not capture its emotional and ensuing devastation. People watched their gravely wounded loved ones take their last breath. Imagine that, somebody you love bleeding out in a bowling alley. One man reported having to use a cornhole bag to plug another’s wound. Imagine that, in a bar and grill.

Those poor people, too, who huddled around each other for hours not knowing the status of their missing family member. A friend of mine who learned of his friend’s passing put his hands on his temples and began crying uncontrollably. The “nooo” he expelled was a raw cry from his bones, and the sadness in his heart was the aurora lurking throughout our entire state.

Compounding this trauma was that it had no immediate finality. For two days, we were locked in our homes. The city was eerily silent. Some people ran out of food, but were too fearful to leave. Letting your dog outside was a risk. Sitting by your living room window, exposed, suddenly felt threatening. We were trapped in the ugliest level of fear.

The gunman was eventually found, and only then could we consider a brief exhale before beginning to weigh the colossal tragedy before us.

So, what helps in a situation like this? Does anything help?

You did.

One of the primary lessons we gleaned from this tragedy is this: support matters. Your thoughts, prayers, and outreach mattered.

A city in California posted a picture to social media of their flag at half-staff with a kind message to us. It was shared thousands of times here, and we knew we were not alone.

Sports teams had “Lewiston Strong” jerseys made. In a tribute, they aligned in a circle side-by-side with a player from the opposing team to show unity. We felt that connection.

The moment of silence you extended to us at your event was comforting medicine to the heart and soul.

The monetary donations to the families, like to the pregnant mother who lost her husband, gave relief.

The national newscasters taking time to empathize with the anxiety we were experiencing made us feel seen.

The police in neighboring states, as well as the FBI, ATF, U.S. Marshals, and Border Patrol unit that all rapidly descended upon Maine reinforced our spirits.

Knowing that the president had been briefed, and national agencies were involved validated the severity of what was truly happening.

There are hundreds of more examples. Please notice the words I used to describe what the support you provided felt like to us, in the midst of great peril: not alone, connected, comforting, relief, seen, reinforced, and validated.

Thank you.

Oftentimes, we may think our thoughts and prayers are fruitless, but the sentiment and efforts you expressed had real impact. You buffered the pain and eased the burden.

The dust is now starting to settle for us. Cleaning crews have cleaned up the blood and the wreckage. Bullet fragments have been cut out of walls and floors and so on. News crews have mostly left. We’re holding vigils, celebrations of life, coming together, and starting to process the shock and grief.

As we rebuild and begin to heal, remember this: if a troubling event were to ever occur in your community, think of us, and know, deep in your heart, that the people of Maine see you.

And we will be among the first to run to you, too, just as you did for us.

Andrew Watson is a former crisis counselor now working in management at a mental health agency. He resides in Auburn.