WEST, Texas (AP) -- In an April 21 story about the explosion at a Texas fertilizer plant, The Associated Press misspelled the assistant state fire marshal's name. His name is Kelly Kistner, not Kelly Kirstner.
A corrected version of the story is below:
Prayer and waiting in Texas town rocked by blast
As heart-wrenching week ends, Texas town where plant exploded prays, plans -- and waits
By PAUL J. WEBER and CHRISTOPHER SHERMAN
WEST, Texas (AP) -- The First Baptist Church in the tiny Texas town where a fertilizer plant exploded is still off-limits, so the Rev. John Crowder put folding chairs in a hay pasture and improvised a pulpit on a truck flatbed. At the elementary school, an official carted extra desks and chairs into the only public school campus that's left.
This was Sunday in West. Four days after the blast that killed 14 people and injured 200 others, residents prayed for comfort and got ready for the week ahead, some of them still waiting to find out when -- or if -- they will be able to go back home.
"We have lost our friends and neighbors. We lost the safety and comfort of our homes," said Crowder, raising his voice over the whirr of helicopters surveying the nearby rubble from overhead. "But as scary as this is, we don't have to be afraid."
The explosion at the West Fertilizer Co. rocketed shrapnel across several blocks and left what assistant state fire marshal Kelly Kistner described Sunday as "a large crater." A section of the flat farming town near the crater, including Crowder's church, is still behind barricades.
One school campus was obliterated, and on the eve of 1,500 students returning to class for the first time since Wednesday's blast, Superintendent Marty Crawford said the high school and middle school could also be razed.
Nearly 70 federal and state investigators are still trying to determine what caused the fire that set off the explosion, Kistner said. Authorities say there are no signs of criminal intent.
Robert Champion, the special agent in charge for the Dallas office of the federal Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, said experts plan to enter the crater in the next few days and start digging in search of an explanation.
"It's a slow process, but we're getting there," Champion said.
Slow is the normal way of life in West. But the last several days for many of its 2,800 residents have melded into an anguishing and frustrating stretch of wait-and-hear -- whether about the safety of family and friends, or the fate of their homes.
Six firefighters and four emergency medics were among the dead, and city officials announced that a memorial service would be held Thursday at Baylor University.
Professional organizations and family and friends on Sunday identified four of the first responders who died: brothers Doug and Robert Snokhous, who were both firefighters with the West Volunteer Fire Department; Jerry Chapman, a firefighter with the Abbott Volunteer Fire Department; and Kevin Sanders, who worked with West EMS and another area volunteer fire department.
At least one of the West volunteer firefighters who was killed, Joey Pustejovsky, was a member of St. Mary's Church of the Assumption that held a solemn first Mass since the blast.
Firefighters and emergency workers in bright yellow jackets kneeled in the pews as the Rev. Boniface Onjefu recalled driving toward the fire after the explosion rattled his house.
"I stopped at the nursing home," Onjefu said. "I noticed a lot of people trapped. I assisted. I prayed with some and held the hands of some that needed comfort. I saw him in the eyes of everyone."
Said Onjefu, "God heard our prayers and prevented another tank from exploding."
Edi Botello, a senior at West High School, is Catholic but stood in a roadside pasture with friend Chelsea Hayes for the First Baptist Church service that drew more than 100 people. "We needed this," Botello said.
They wore gray "(hash)prayforwest" shirts that have become ubiquitous in the town. On the night of the explosion, Botello asked his mother if Hayes, who lived close to the plant, could come over. He said his mom still wonders what might have been if she had said no.
"Every time I close my eyes, all I can think about is the explosion," Botello said. "People running around. People evacuating. There was one point I couldn't even talk. I just stuttered."
Wendy Castro, a clerk at a nearby Wal-Mart, was among the first allowed back into her home, which sits on the outmost edge of the barricaded area. Broken windows and screen doors twisted off hinges is about the worst damage in her neighborhood.