(Editor’s Note: On March 12, 2026, Brother Justin Polk (Michigan State, 2014) and his wife experienced the nightmare that every Jewish parent — every parent — fears the most. The synagogue where his children attended pre-school — Temple Israel in West Bloomfield, MI — was under attack by an apparent antisemitic terrorist. Justin works for AEPi’s housing arm, Esponda Associates, and he has been kind enough to take some time to reflect and write this piece. Following, in his own words, are Justin’s thoughts and reactions to March 12 and its aftermath. All of AEPi is overjoyed that a disaster was averted and grateful to Temple Israel’s security staff and the first responders who helped keep children, clergy, faculty and parents safe. We pray for peaceful times for Justin and his family, the entire Temple Israel congregation, and Jewish communities around the world).
Every individual has their own worst-case scenario. The scenario could be related to medical issues. It could be related to school or work. However, when you become a parent, those worst-case scenarios revolve around your kids. On Thursday, March 12th, my worst-case scenario started to play out.
For me, Thursday started like any other Esponda travel day. A 4:00 a.m. wake-up to travel to the Detroit airport to visit our chapters and houses in Illinois and Wisconsin. The flight was uneventful, the rental car was sitting there waiting to be picked up, and I hopped on the highway to head to the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign. Upon arriving at the house, the house manager and I sat down and started discussing house topics. Around 11:15 a.m. local time, my phone, which for some reason had the ringer on, started chiming. I grabbed it to turn the ringer off and noticed that it was a text from my sister, Jessica, that read, “Active Shooter at Temple.” My initial response was, “Excuse me?” thinking it was a typo or something else. Moments later, I received a phone call from a friend who asked, “Is everything okay with Temple Israel? My sister said she heard sirens and police cars heading towards the building.” All I could muster was, “I have no idea. I am currently in Champaign meeting with students.” The silence on the other end of the line was all I needed to know that my worst-case scenario was starting to play out.
As notifications from Metro Detroit news outlets started filling my phone, I immediately called my wife, Amanda. “Did you end up dropping off Brooklyn at school? What do you know? Where is she?” Her words came through clearly, but I didn’t know what would happen next. Here I am, 375 miles away, in a different state, in a different time zone, and my daughter’s school is on lockdown due to the initial report of an active shooter.
The next hour was filled with multiple phone calls and texts, trying to get the story straight. We finally learned that a car had rammed into the building through the door I exit with my daughters. While my youngest, Eden, was not at Temple that day, we were still worried about Brooklyn. Eventually, Amanda got in contact with her aunt, who happens to be Brooklyn’s teacher, and she informed us that they were safe and out of the building. Moments later, a text from one of her classmate’s parents read, “I have eyes on Brooklyn. She is safe.” Relief fell over my body. My daughter was safe.
However, that relief quickly faded when my sister still didn’t know where her two kids were. My 2-year-old niece, Sloan, just started the program in January and my 5-year-old nephew, Ryder, is finishing his last year in the program. The familiar panic started to set in again when their whereabouts were still unknown an hour after this had started. Again, phone calls to my wife, other parents, and my sister helped relay any information we could find. Ultimately, my niece’s class had run to the neighborhood behind the Temple, and my nephew’s class checked in that all was good. Knowing that all of my immediate family was safe, I could finally breathe a sigh of relief.
I talked to my wife and started looking for the earliest flight home. I struggled to find anything that would guarantee my arrival home before my original flight on Friday night. While searching for alternate travel, my wife picked up our daughter from the reunification center. I was, begrudgingly, stuck in a different state. Ultimately, we decided that we should not disrupt this trip any further and would attempt to come home on an earlier flight on Friday. I ended up staying with a friend on Thursday night, and as the wind howled against the window, I slept with one eye open, trying to break down what had just happened. There were more questions than answers, but we knew these things about the situation: all students, staff, teachers, and clergy were safe; one security officer was injured and in the hospital; and more than 60 first responders were being treated for smoke inhalation at local hospitals.
Friday was a blur. People reached out to check in. All I kept saying was that everyone was safe and that I was okay. I just wanted to get home to be with my family. After some wild and windy Midwestern weather, I finally landed back in Detroit. I raced home, and as I entered the house, my daughter came running to the door. I got down on my knees and gave her the biggest hug. We celebrated Shabbat as a family that night, and for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, nothing else mattered.
On Saturday, we were able to gather the students’ belongings at an offsite location. When I arrived, I met with the FBI and was interviewed about anything she may have said. And while all of this was going on, I finally felt how real the situation was. No more hiding in another state, it happened, and now we are all together.
We know we have a long road ahead. From my daughter processing what happened, to my son feeling like he wasn’t there to protect his little sister, we know we will need to unpack each of our experience from that day. There is also an uncertain future for the program as the synagogue was severely damaged from the incident. This synagogue has been a staple in our lives. Not only has it hosted all three of our children in their early childhood center, but it was also the site of both my wife’s and my Bar and Bat Mitzvah, our Aufruf, where we go to read my dad’s name on his yahrzeit, where my parents were married nearly 40 years ago and all three of our kids’ baby namings were held. We know we have many more memories to make here.
Most importantly, while we experienced something so scary and hateful toward our Jewish community, it reminds us of one simple thing: no matter how much hate there is, as long as we are still here, hate can never win.
(Final Editor’s Note: Do you have something to say or a story to tell? Submit your own Voices piece for consideration to [email protected] and we’d be happy to work with you and publish your story!)