There are, for all of us, moments in our childhood that shape and define us. There are times that we never forget, words spoken or actions taken that mold our hearts and lives forever. The very first such memory that I have is of my oldest brother Veldyn (18 yrs older than I) taking me with him to drag out a deer he had shot. I was 18 months old. I know, its crazy, babies are not supposed to remember that young, but I do. We have no pictures of the event, so I know my memory, fuzzy as it is, is truly a memory. The over arching feeling that associates that memory for me is one of importance. The reality that my big strong brother wanted to take me with him sent me the clear message that I mattered to him and that he liked being with me!
Another shaping memory I have is from when I was about 4 or 5. My sister Deanne (14 older than me) required something of me that for some unknowable reason made me angry and I stomped my foot to show the depth of my frustration. My punishment was that for 5 minutes solid I had to stomp that same foot. To this day when I am tempted to loose my temper at a situation, I can feel the slightest burn in my right thigh.
Possibly the most shaping event of my childhood occurred when I was 13 years old. My family's house burnt to the ground, leaving us homeless and stripping me of the only truly safe place I had ever known. As a child I was not prone to playing with others, making friends easily, or, heaven forbid, immersing myself in dolls! Rather, I was an animal and adventure lover. Most of my time was spent outdoors, preferably with at least 5 animals around me. Most of the world was scary for me. I loved to be home, on my own farm, with my own family, and most of all my own favorite places and creatures. Twinkle, Blackie, Magnolia, Teeny, Flame, Ember, Krista, Bo, Sparkle, Americas, Macon, and a myriad of nameless but still beloved cows, rabbits and chickens were my friends. I even had a pet mouse named Little Bit (which my parents never knew about) who lived in the ceiling of my bedroom. Every evening I would take bits of food and tuck them up inside a hole above my top bunk bed and every night Little Bit would eat the food and then poke his face out to look at me and listen to my troubles. Of course I had to whisper because my sister slept on the bottom bunk and heaven forbid she should hear my secrets OR know about Little Bit! I now suspect that Little Bit was actually not only one but possibly many mice since this tradition lasted for several years.
That day, the day of the fire, I lost something much more than my house; I lost my security and in many ways my identity. One of my clearest memories from the day is of myself running full tilt down our gravel road toward the neighbors with the sound of the windows exploding behind me. Our whole church came out that day. They surrounded us, they lifted us, they gave us all that we needed to carry on. For three days they put their lives on hold and they helped us clean up. Their actions were incredibly giving and loving. They saved my parents sanity! But I, a child full of bluff and bluster and fear, was completely lost. I was exposed, without any way to hide or any ability to get back home. I was trapped in a world of chaos and action, clutter and the stench of smoke. My bedroom was directly across the hall from the source of the fire so absolutely nothing remained of my things. Not the shell casing from the first deer I shot. Not my favorite ever poster of Eeyore. Not the beautiful little ceder box with the idyllic picture of the First Nation princess on the front, not the little basket that my grandpa and I sent back and forth for years with our 'fleas' in it, and not the beautiful hand carved school box that my dear friend Mr. Blackwell had made for me. No clothes or photos or even my shell collection could be saved from my room. I was utterly destitute. The bed where I had wept and prayed over tiny dead birds, sick calves, drowned kittens, and mauled bunnies, begging God to bring them back to life, was gone. There were no spots filled with the comforting reality of my own possessions, thoughts, dreams and space.
I have now lived significantly longer away from my childhood home than I lived with it, and yet, when I think of home, that is the place my mind goes. I can't count the number of times I have dreamed of that house, of the barn, of the little pond, and the creek, and the old milk parlor that was my favorite place of all. One would think that after so many years the loss would be healed. And yet, today, when the firetrucks came and the firemen dragged their hoses across my lawn, and our whole church gathered to watch the "Brown House" as we call the abandoned and condemned dwelling that sits between us and our church, be burned to the ground by the fire department; today when I opened the window to the home I now own with my husband and I smelled that acrid black smoke and I heard that horrible crash of breaking windows, today I was 13 again. I was 13 and my world was crumbling and my heart was breaking and I could not rescue my sister's house cat. I was 13 and the place that was my safety was being invaded by huge trucks with loud sirens and by all the people in my church who I loved but somehow feared. I was 13 and I could hear my newest batch of kittens crying pitifully in the pump house from under the freezer as the smoke curled its evil fingers around into their tiny lungs.
Its tonight now. The house is gone, completely consumed by the roaring flames. I've been dreading this event for months. Again, a fire leaves me vulnerable. This time I am not homeless, but my privacy is compromised. No-one knows exactly how many pairs of underwear I own because they are the ones who had to go out and buy them for me, but they will know if I step out my door 'less than dressed.' This time my clothes won't smell like smoke for days. This time my sister won't cry herself to sleep at night in the new double bed we share because her heart is broken over her cat, who was her baby. So its not the same. Its not even close really.
This time I'm all grown up. This time I can separate the reality of life with the unreality of MY life. I know that it will be ok. I know that the heart of God is safer than any beautiful 140 acre ranch. I know now that it can be safe to be vulnerable, that the people God puts in our lives can be trusted with our brokenness, and that 'home' is not actually a place, but a relationship. I know these things now, but I did not always know them. In the bright light of awakeness I can say and think and feel these things, but in the darkness of sleep they are not always so true. And this makes me wonder, what is true for you in the light of open eyes that does not remain steadfast in sleep?
