For years the memory was buried, only rearing its ugly head occasionally. About a year ago, it come out with a vengeance, tipping my world upside down. I’m in the process of learning to cope with the effects.
Most days the memory lies dormant just below the surface. However, there are other days when it slams me out of nowhere.
Us five have been a scattered bunch lately. Three cheerleaders in one family makes for crazy evening schedules. One child at practice while another or two need to be at games on opposite ends of town. We’ve been ships passing, and stress has turned us cranky. So we decided Sunday was the day for a pleasant family outing.
Since riding in the car together has been a source of contention for the girls lately, Mark decided to bribe them. Good behavior to and from church would result in a stop at our local Kangaroo for a special snack. Bless him…it worked! This Sunday was going to be a good day!
We decided our afternoon outing would be a trip to the shooting range, and we’d all go despite a couple of protests from our homebody child. Mark grabbed his rifle, while the older girls put their BB guns in the truck. Off we went, with me feeling only slightly apprehensive. I didn’t plan to shoot…only watch. I was sure this wasn’t going to be a problem.
On the ride, I silently asked God to give me words to write as my writing has been sparse lately. Little did I know that He’d provide those words within the next hour.
We travelled down the dirt and gravel roads until we saw targets. Mark parked the truck, and told us we could just sit still while he waited in line for a shooting table. Even then I was pretty sure I was going to handle the situation well. After all, he and the girls were going to be shooting what I call big guns {even though Mark assures me they are NOT big guns}.
But it quickly became apparent I wasn’t prepared for what happened next: the sound of a pistol firing repeatedly.
I don’t even know how I knew the distinction between the sounds of big guns and little guns; but it immediately triggered the childhood memory that haunts me {despite the fact that there were no shots fired}. My body was suddenly wracked with silent, uncontrollable sobs. I quickly tried to regain composure as my youngest was asking, Mom, are you crying? Mom, what’s wrong?
I spent the next hour holding back tears, facing the fear by watching the pistol shooter, and alternately hiding in the truck. The loneliness I felt as a child swept over me again and again. Finally, in the last few minutes, fear expressed itself through lyrics…haunting, sad and gritty.
Over the last several days, I’ve been reminded repeatedly that God wastes nothing…good or bad. It’s confounding to me how He uses fear to bring comfort. Sure, He could’ve given me lyrics in a time when I wasn’t afraid, but He didn’t waste an opportunity to comfort me…to remind me that He was with me all those years ago, even though I wasn’t aware of His presence.
While I can’t say I’ve faced my fear and won, I can say that it was a good Sunday. My man and my girls had fun, and God revealed Himself to me in the most unexpected way.
