The Childhood Horror Of Facing A Gun

I wrote the first draft of this post over six months ago. Since then, I’ve edited and re-edited several times. Every time I’ve gone to click the Publish button, I’ve felt troubled.

As today’s events unfolded, I heard them on the radio, read about them on my Facebook feed, and heard strangers discuss them in the shopping mall. All the while, I was on the verge of emotionally falling apart. Once I was alone in my car, I let the tears fall…more than once. And Holy Spirit whispered, It’s time to publish.

As a parent, my heart aches and screams for the loss of those precious babies. But as a survivor, I know the horror of having been a child with a gun pointed at my face:

My husband is a hunter, so we’ve had guns in our home since day one. It’s never been a problem until last year when he said he wanted a pistol. He explained that he wanted one for protection, and even wanted to teach me how to shoot it. So we went to our local sporting goods store to get an idea of what kind of pistol we could both use. My husband pointed out the gun he wanted to see to the sales associate. Unbeknownst to him, my heart was already pounding hard. He held the gun, turning it over in his hands to decide whether he liked it, then passed it in my direction. I shoved his hand away, and walked quickly to another section of the store, fearing I would break into tears at any second.

Not long after that experience, we were watching a reality show in which survivors tell stories of  experiences in which they should have died. One woman told her story, as the reenactment was being shown, of a man shooting her in the face. I couldn’t watch, but I couldn’t stop either, as tears welled up in my eyes. It was then that I knew I had to find help.

I started seeing a counselor to help me move past a childhood trauma, an experience I never emotionally addressed…

It was a morning like any other. My sisters and I were getting ready to go to our private, Christian school. Mom was heading out the door to work, and Dad was already gone. If I remember correctly, it was dad’s birthday. Little did I know that within a matter of minutes, an event would occur that would haunt my life.

My sisters and I were all dressed and in the kitchen, preparing our breakfasts. Jennifer and I were having cereal, and some incident over a spoon set into motion a day that remains both vividly clear and frustratingly fuzzy.

I was seven, Jenn was fourteen, and Cathy was seventeen. As sisters frequently do, we fought. Jenn and I had some argument over a spoon, and as Mom was getting in her car to leave for work, I stuck my head out the door to tattle. I had no idea that my mother had apparently reached her stress limit that morning.

I remember feeling my duty was done after tattling, and set about getting another spoon and eating my cereal. Mother stormed back in the house, straight to her bedroom. My sisters and I had settled down at the table and were halfway through our breakfasts while we wondered what mom was doing so quietly in her bedroom. We knew it couldn’t be good that she was obviously not leaving for work, but we had no idea how bad it was about to get.

As we were silently finishing our breakfasts, mom returned to the kitchen holding dad’s pistol in her hand. She walked to the table where we sat, stood across from us, and raised the gun, pointed at us. I didn’t move, but my sisters both scrambled to stand on either side of me. Mom’s face is fuzzy in my memory, but her words remain clear: Which one of you do you want me to shoot first? I think I went into a mild state of shock at that point. I don’t remember being terribly afraid…in fact, I don’t remember feeling much of anything. Events are fuzzy after that point except her telling us how angry she was over our fighting.

After a few minutes of pouring out her frustration on us, she returned to her bedroom. I have no idea if I actually finished my breakfast, and I don’t remember how I got to school. I do clearly remember my sister telling me not to tell anyone what had taken place, or mom would go to jail. Still, at even such a young age, I knew what she’d done was horribly wrong, and I needed to tell someone. In the school restroom, I told my best friend what had happened, but was immediately scared by her reaction, so I told her it had all been a dream. I didn’t mention it to anyone again for years.

Upon returning home from school that day, we found mom in the kitchen, baking a cake. I don’t remember talking to her; instead, the three of us camped out on my sister’s bed until dad came home. While much of what he said is not clear in my memory, he did ask what happened, even though he already knew. I think he made excuses for mom, and told us not to talk about it. We swept the incident under the rug, never to be talked about in our home again.

Subconsciously, I learned that day that people couldn’t be trusted, and secrets are meant for keeping. I learned to put a smile on my face even when I felt like dying inside. I learned to build walls around my heart to protect it from other people. I’ve spent a lifetime hiding from people, and hating myself…blaming myself.

Over the years, I told few friends about the experience, but never with emotion. It was just one form of abuse I experienced, and any fear I might have once felt had been buried. Until last year…when fear began to overwhelm me…in almost every area of my life. As I recounted the story to my counselor, I {once again} did so with little emotion. When she put the names abuse and trauma to it, every buried emotion came flowing out of me. It was comforting to hear someone say that what my mother did that day was not okay, and that it was okay for me to be struggling with it.

She asked me to think back on that day, then asked me what I would do as an adult if I walked in on that exact situation. It all made sense to me then. I knew immediately what I would do…what any responsible adult would do: protect the children! She then said something that has helped me in dealing with the memory: that God was with me and my sisters that day. Not once in all those years did I ever think about God being present that day. If anything, I felt abandoned by Him, as well as by my mother, and by my father who did nothing when he came home. It’s comforting to know that He saw and understood my fear {and still does}.

Over the past several months, I’ve had a couple of conversations with my mother about that day. She’s apologized and says she regrets it. Unfortunately, it’s been followed by excuses and justifications. I think most days I’ve forgiven her, but if I’m honest, forgiveness is a daily choice. Some days I don’t choose well. I hold on to the hope that we’re both works in progress.