The Things that Shape Us By Mary Folkerts

 

Reuse, rethink, recycle—and perhaps relive? Sometimes, when we revisit our past, certain memories are stirred awake that have lain dormant for years. It can be restorative to embrace the emotions triggered by those events, as time and distance often help us process them with more clarity. 

And as we process, we uncover nuggets of truth that remain as accurate now as they were then; truths about God's faithfulness in difficult times. As our hearts are encouraged by the remembering, we can use these nuggets to weave encouragement throughout our writing.

It was on a Tuesday in October 1978 that my husband Art's family experienced a tragedy that changed their lives forever. The siblings reminisced about that time on Messenger a few days ago, which led Art to recall his memories of being a twelve-year-old boy in grade 7.

The day started like any other. Art got ready to catch the big yellow bus that would take him down the gravel road to the small local school. His parents were preparing to go to a doctor's appointment in the big city, expecting to be back later that evening.

That afternoon, Art returned home from school, but when supper time came, his parents still hadn't returned. We imagine (Art's memory is fuzzy on some details, so we fill in the gaps) that Mom left food in the fridge for him and the hired man to warm up. All evening, Art waited, listening for the sound of tires crunching on gravel, signaling his parents' return. Finally, it was time for bed, so he turned off the lights and went to sleep. Tomorrow morning, he planned to ask them about their long day in the city.

Morning broke to a silent house. Throwing back the covers, Art hurried upstairs, and to his surprise and dread, the kitchen was empty. Mom wasn't packing lunches or preparing breakfast. Where were they? There had been no phone calls explaining their absence. What had happened?

With these questions and a sense of dread hanging over him, Art prepared for school. What was a twelve-year-old to do but continue his routine?

School must have dragged on long for him that day. I can only imagine the thoughts and fears swirling in his mind. It was unlike Mom and Dad to keep their plans from him.

That afternoon, as the school bus lumbered to a stop and before the doors snapped open, Art stood, grabbed his lunchbox, and ran up the driveway to the house. Still, the house stood empty.

Did panic set in? What would a boy of twelve think in a moment such as this? True, he wasn't entirely alone on the farm as a hired man lived nearby — but that offered little comfort. Where were mom and dad? Did he consider calling someone? Did he think of calling his older sisters, who lived far away in another city? Art doesn't remember.

Then, shortly after he arrived home, he suddenly heard tires on the driveway! Quickly, Art ran to see who it was, and with relief and joy, he saw it was his older brother, Fred, and his wife, Margaret. Eagerly, he ran out to greet them, but when he saw their faces, joy turned into confusion. And then there was Mom with them. What—?

Unbeknownst to Art, another trauma had unfolded in the city. Dad had completed his appointment, and the doctor had given him a clean bill of health, but during lunch at a restaurant near the hospital, he suddenly started having seizures. He was rushed to the ER, where they eventually diagnosed a burst brain aneurysm.

We will never know exactly why no word reached Art until Mom came home twenty-four hours later. Maybe it was shock; perhaps she didn't want Art to find out something was wrong while he was alone. Each of Art's siblings has their own story about how and when they learned that Dad was gravely ill.

Dad did survive, but he was a shadow of his former self. He lived another 20 years with his disabilities.

Art says that life changed for him, too, that day.

Sometimes it's helpful to revisit life-defining moments. Art felt the emotions of the young boy he once was, and it still brought tears for the trauma he endured. I hurt alongside him, imagining little Art, scared and alone. It may seem strange, but I believe it can be healing to go back to our childhood, to our places of pain, and to love on the child we once were.

Any trauma, especially childhood trauma, shapes us. It can have a devastating impact if God's love isn't poured into those wounds, because an open wound will continue to fester and bleed. But when healing occurs, the things that could have broken us only make us stronger and more compassionate.

"And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose." Romans 8:28 (NIV).

Mary Folkerts is mom to four kids and wife to a farmer, living on the southern prairies of Alberta, where the skies are large and the sunsets stunning. She is a member of Proverbs 31 Ministries' COMPEL Writers Training, involved in church ministries and music. Mary’s blog aims to encourage and inspire women and advocate for those with Down Syndrome, as their youngest child introduced them to this extraordinary new world. For more inspiration, check out Joy in the Small Things https://maryfolkerts.com/ or connect on Instagram https://www.instagram.com/maryfolkerts/