Drama Of The Trauma
I simply want to share something that happened to our family 10 years ago….It was a house fire.
My son was 6 years old and my daughter was 10.
William recently wrote about this traumatic event…With his permission I share it with you:
Change, Fire
By William Croft
In childhood, I had a silent, unconscious appreciation for things in my life that stayed the same. My school, my friends, my family, my neighborhood, my home: everything in its right place. So, when my family began packing for a vacation to our house in Louisiana, I had every assumption that things would be exactly the same—waiting for me—when I returned.
When you’re six years old, the world runs the way you think it does; until, with tears, laughter, or burning hysteria: you discover the truth.
“Food’s ready!” Mom said, ensuring her voice rang loud enough for me not to pretend to ignore her.
“Five minutes! Please ,” I said, stopping only for a moment before I continued bouncing on the ever-so alluring trampoline.
“Well,” she paused. “Alright.”
Defeated.
The beating sun above—which I considered with eyes half closed—seemed almost daring in its intensity. The sky an azure blanket, politely dusted with thin clouds cruising comfortably towards their destination. Hot June days were meant to be spent outside, and outside I intended to spend them. I closed my eyes, my bare skin covered in a light dew as the sun bathed me in its fervor. Perhaps lost in my own thought, perhaps chasing a brief fantasy, I stood there transfixed
until—
“Come on!”
“Sorry, mom,”
I rushed inside.
*
Two weeks into summer vacation, it was almost time to pack our bags and head home. I had thoroughly enjoyed spending my days half-clothed jumping on the trampoline in our backyard, or swimming in the neighbor’s pool with my sister and our summer friends. However, I was also eager to be back under a familiar roof, sleeping in a bed I had made my own through countless nights. It was with this in mind that when the fateful day came, and Dad hoisted my luggage into the trunk of Mom’s car, I pitched a fit.
There were two things in the world which—at the time—were worse than no other: trips to the dentist, and eight-hour car rides.
“Almost there? Are we almost there?” I ask for the seventy-eighth and seventy-ninth time respectively.
“For the love of God shut up ,” my delightful sister says.
“Anna, don’t tell your brother to shut—”
“—Are we almost there?” and…eighty.
“Honey. Hush.”
Groan.
An unknowable amount of time later, a downward lurch warned me of our arrival to the road leading to our secluded neighborhood.
Finally .
With unyielding eyelids and cemented limbs, I stepped out of the car. Home, sweet home. I stood, absent minded, alongside my sister as Mom tried—and failed—to fit the key in the lock. After a long battle, the door gave way, and we made our way inside. Crisp, smokey air filled mylungs and awoke my senses. The hair on my arm rose. Something was wrong, yet none of us could pinpoint what . The sound of a motor buzzing (dad on the motorcycle) outside told us that Dad was close.
For a moment, we continued as if nothing was wrong. We made way towards the car to bring our luggage in.
“It…it smells like smoke,” Anna said, breaking the silence.
We entered the house once more, luggage in hand.
Again, burnt air filled my lungs and ash rose on my tongue. Mom, eyes wide and hands held close, walked down the hall to see charred burn hardwood, while my sister and I stayed in the living room.
“ Mom! The couch, it’s on fire!” my sister called. Mom rushed into the room.
The couch was completely black, absolutely covered in soot.
“Grab your things—Quickly! Let’s go,” Mom said, rushing us outside as she called 911 and into safety.
As Dad pulled into the driveway, I took off into a sprint.
First, the fire trucks arrived. In my exhaustion, the night passed by, my only role the helpless spectator. That night I also learned a new word: Arson . Dad did his best to explain the situation to me, but in that moment I was only a child. A child who could not understand why he couldn’t enter his own home, sleep in his own bed.
Then, the literal and metaphorical dust settled, it was over.
Then came a new state, a new home, a new life. First, surviving; then, conforming. Out of a fiery haze came a realization that would not fully set in for years to come: the things in my life are not tied down by the comfort I find in them. They can, and will, go up in flames.
And life moves on.
WJC
============
Why am I sharing this?
Well, I wish I knew more about healing from trauma for my children and myself back then.
I wish I could helped later with my son’s fears and my daughter’s (short period of) rebellion.
Now I do. I understand simple steps to rid oneself of trauma and walk in fullness of joy.
It’s one area I address in the Spirit Identity Series….A complete video teaching with videos and downloadable material….
You can walk away from the drama of trauma back to simple joy in the journey.
Let’s do this.
Let’s get started now--Click here or the link below.
I believe in you. You have great value. I’m handing out hope.
And by the way, 10 years later, the goodness of the LORD JESUS is alive. Here is a happy picture from my husband’s birthday dinner yesterday.
In the Vine,
Theresa
PS Get this complete Video series teaching now by clicking here now while there is a discount on it…This could be the key to your BREAKTHROUGH!
William is now 15 and Anna is 20. Dave says he is stuck on being 29! 🙂