It’s writers workshop week at the MK school and the kids were given notebooks to write about their life and experiences. As I read through my second grader’s first entry, I gasped, my heart skipping a beat with a painful memory, while tears pooled in my eyes:
“One day my family went to the mall in Chauhua [sic] and my dad was looking for new glasses for my brother Michael and some thing went wrong with my daddy’s brain. And when I saw it happen I brist [sic] into tears. And then I saw a lot of lot of lot of blood on the floor…”
It was an epileptic seizure – tonic clonic (formerly called gran mal). Unannounced, completely unexpected, and most certainly unwelcome. Not to mention undeniably ugly.
It changed our life. It was a push off a cliff and we would free fall for some time afterward. It wasn’t just the seizure, but the consequent decisions we had to make coupled with negative circumstances out of our control.
Although some of her facts are amiss (i.e. location), the impact of that day has stayed with us. Each one of our kids has their own story to tell. And so do I. I’ve put off writing the experience for almost three years and decided, after reading her entry, that it’s time I do so.
To continue healing. To let others know that missionaries also face crisis of faith. To share the struggle. To show our humanness and expose emptiness we experience in the valley. And to remind myself of God’s goodness even when it’s not seen or felt.
And also to match my daughters brave vulnerability.