Protected for a Purpose

Sometimes when James Jones tells the story of the events of December 1, 2016, he cries. On that day, he was involved in a shooting at his local barbershop. Someone else had been the target, but the bullet that entered Jones’ body brought him closer to death than he had ever felt.

What had started as a typical day of fulfilling church errands and other responsibilities ended with Jones bleeding in a hospital bed. But miraculously, this Salvation Army pastor who had been shot at close range, was able to astound doctors by leaving the hospital that same day.

“It makes me emotional to know that God is with me, and that I’m a living testimony to Him,” says Jones, who is the pastor of The Salvation Army corps (church) in McKeesport, Pa. At the time of the shooting, Major Jones and his wife, Major Malinda Jones, were corps officers in Barberton, Ohio.

“Life is not promised to any of us. You can be here today and gone tomorrow. But we know that God has a purpose for us all,” says Major Malinda. “Still, this is something that you expect to see on a TV crime show, not happen to your husband on a normal day of church responsibilities.”

Morning errands

Despite having a busy day, it was imperative that Jones make it to his barbershop appointment. The mayor of Barberton was scheduled to hold a summit at Jones’ church later that day on the dangers of heroin addiction. Local judges and politicians were also expected to attend. Jones, who had just completed a “No Shave November” fundraising challenge, needed a haircut badly.

“My wife was driving to Cincinnati for a funeral, so I was already needing help,” says Jones. The only way his schedule could work would be to move everything up. His first stop was the Akron Adult Rehabilitation Center (ARC), to give a volunteer a ride to the corps. As he waited for the man to come out, a beneficiary made small talk with Jones.

During his chat the man said that, in the past, he had been shot twice. James recalls, “I was a little taken aback, but I politely told him that the next time I saw him, we would talk about this for longer.”

I couldn’t move or get up. The man in the baggy clothes was at my feet, and I could see he had his gun under the barber’s frock. I didn’t know if he was out of bullets, but I did know that I was an eyewitness to what he had done. He looked me in the eyes, and I thought to myself, Well, Jimmy, this is it. This is how you go out.

While in the car, the volunteer chatted about his interests, which included a desire to shoot handguns and rifles. Jones continued to politely listen to him talk.

When they arrived at the church in Barberton, a woman named Suzie, who Jones knew well, asked, “Hey Major, did you know that, when I was little, they used to call me ‘Annie Oakley’ because I was such a good shot?”

That day, gun talk followed Jones everywhere he went. But he didn’t have time to dwell on it; he had to get to his barber.

‘This is how you go out’

Every two weeks, Jones visited R.P.’s Blade Academy Barbershop in Akron for a haircut. Located down the street from The Salvation Army, the shop is well–known in the community. It was where NBA star Lebron James got his haircuts as a child. That day, Jones focused on how fast he could get in and out and prepare for the summit scheduled later that night.

“As I waited my turn, I had a feeling inside me that said something was not right; I should get up and leave. But before I could think more of it, it was my turn.”

However, Jones’ assigned barber began texting someone on his phone. Then, without saying a word, he walked away from his chair and into a bathroom. James sat there, feeling frustrated. As he waited for his barber to return, another customer, who wore wide, baggy jeans and a hooded shirt, sat in the chair next to Jones, facing him.

“I would usually say something like, ‘Please pull those pants up,’ to someone dressed like that. This time, I didn’t,” Jones recalls.

As a barber prepped the man in baggy clothing for his haircut, another patron walked through the front door. “I found this to be a little strange. Usually everyone comes in through the back of the shop, not the front,” says Jones.

The man who had walked in, yelled, “Get out of the chair!” to the man in baggy clothes. But before he could finish his words, Jones heard a boom and felt a sharp blow to his body. It pushed him back in his seat.

As the other clients in the shop ran out in terror, four more booms followed. The man who had walked through the front door collapsed. The man in baggy clothes stood from his chair and walked towards James, who bled from his torso.

“I couldn’t move or get up. The man in the baggy clothes was at my feet, and I could see he had his gun under the barber’s frock. I didn’t know if he was out of bullets, but I did know that I was an eyewitness to what he had done. He looked me in the eyes, and I thought to myself, Well, Jimmy, this is it. This is how you go out."

But the man in baggy clothes ran out the front door. James thought about trying to leave as well, but he worried who might be outside.

“Instead, I ran into a doorless room in the back of the barbershop where they kept boxes of supplies and extra chairs. I hid and

called 911 but had to hang up on them. I didn’t want anyone to hear my voice,” says Jones.

Dizzy from blood loss, but still conscious, Jones finally left the shop and struggled into his car. Police officers rushed to the scene, their cruiser sirens ablast. The entire incident lasted about six minutes, but to James, it felt like hours.

‘Malinda, I got shot!’

As police questioned Jones, he paused to call his wife, Malinda. He got four words in before his phone’s battery died. “Malinda, I got shot,” he said.

Major Malinda Jones never made it to that funeral in Cincinnati. As soon as James’ phone battery died, she contacted the police in Akron. She tried to learn more about where and when her husband had been shot, but the police withheld such active crime scene information.

“I called David, our oldest son, and told him his father had been shot, and to go to the barbershop. He arrived just as James was being taken to the hospital.”

“As I was being taken, the doctors said that there would be people who wanted to talk to me there. I was taken through an entrance in the hospital for patients involved in a crime,” says Jones. “I saw that I wasn’t being treated as a victim or an eyewitness; I was being treated as a suspect.” Jones obliged to give up his cell phone to the authorities to clear any suspicion they had of him. Meanwhile, the doctors were taking multiple X–rays and checking Jones’ breathing.

The bullet that struck Jones had entered his arm, traveled through his armpit, and exited his back. It had avoided his heart, lungs, and spine. “This is a miracle,” said a doctor while looking over an X–ray. “Mr. Jones, if anyone ever has to get shot, they should want to get shot like you were.”

James would soon learn that the man who had entered the shop had been shot in the spine, lung, and trachea. He would be paralyzed for the rest of his life. A 17–year–old boy in the barbershop had also been hit in the ankle by a stray bullet. Authorities believed that Major Jones’ barber, who went texting into the bathroom and stayed hidden during the encounter, may have been aware of what was about to happen.

Jones went home that same night. “I thought I should have stayed longer. When I saw the puddle of blood on my hospital bed, I was dizzy. I couldn’t believe that had all come from me.”

Time on his hands

Months later, Major Jones had the opportunity to speak to Rob Lash, the man in the baggy clothes who had shot him, but who was now imprisoned. On the day of the shooting, Lash was out on bail; he had sold heroin to a user who then died of an overdose. His story could have been part of the Barberton church’s presentation on heroin addiction, which Jones never got to see.

“I had a whole speech written out that would really let Lash have it for what he had done to me. But I forgot the paper at home,” says Jones, smiling. “Instead, I had the chance to minister to him.

“I said, ‘The best thing now for you is that you have time on your hands. Learn who Jesus is while you are away, so when you get out, you can get direction in your life.’” Lash apologized to Jones for what he had done. At the sentencing trial, Lash was given 12 years in prison. After leaving the courtroom, Lash’s father went up to Jones, who had also attended the sentencing, and hugged him.

At trauma counseling, Jones learned why his memory of the incident was stored in pieces and chunks, rather than as a continuous narrative.

“The adrenaline rush from fear put facts and memories in my mind like scenes in a movie script. That’s how I remember all of this, and how I tell it to others—in scenes,” says Jones. “I was sure that, at some point, I was going to lose consciousness, but I never did. God did not want me to miss a single scene.

“Satan has had his sights on me since the day I decided to go preach for the Lord. But God said, ‘You can try to go after James, but that bullet is going the way I tell it to go.’”

A prayer for purpose

The final scene of that day pictured Major Jones as he arrived home from the hospital and back with his family.

Jones thanked God, but had questions. “I still wondered what God really wanted me to learn from all this. Why did He have me go through what I had seen and felt? That’s when my mind took me back to my teenage years.”

Jones remembered a verse he had read at age 19 in those days when he searched for answers.

“But rise and stand upon thy feet: for I have appeared unto thee for this purpose, to make thee a minister and a witness both of these things which thou hast seen, and of those things in the which I will appear unto thee,” (Acts 26:16 KJV).

“I saw the word I was looking for,” remembers Jones.

Today, Jones can roll up his sleeve and show the word PURPOSE tattooed on his forearm. “My purpose is to reflect on what I just lived through, and my testimony is to remind others that, even when we are caught up in our lives and not thinking about God, our Healer and Protector is thinking about us.

“I am a minister, and now, I’m a witness.”

by HUGO BRAVO