“I have both the violent turbulence of the storm and the quiet promises of God in the storm. And what I must work to remember is that something is not necessarily stronger simply because it’s louder.”

― Craig D. Lounsbrough

After the house disappeared with everything in it, we found ourselves crawling out from under the garage door. We stood on the driveway gawking at the lack of houses down the road, wondering if what just happened could have really happened? The first thing Mom and Dad did was to find out if our neighbours and relatives were hurt; everything was “obliteration” personified. The only house on the other side of the road was so small and rickety that it could barely stand up on its own, with or without wind. But it had stubbornly remained standing, making fools of all the other houses. When the twister started dancing, its owners had rushed across the road to take shelter in my uncle’s strong brick house —a nearly fatal decision. The ceiling in the basement where they had taken shelter had caved in, stopping just short of crushing them all. They had to crawl out from beneath it. The word went up and down the road; everyone was miraculously safe. Betsy, Susie and Tom returned to the remains of their house to wait for their parents arrival.

               The next “think” we had to do was to figure out what to do —we couldn’t stand in the driveway forever! Lo and behold, a car appeared driving slowly and cautiously down the road. Dad quickly hailed the car and it came to a halt. The occupants were newlyweds. The wife was squeezed against her husband, shaking and bug-eyed. She was so scared by the tornado and its annihilation of everything that she didn’t really want to let us in —as though we were bringing with us a plague.  Without second thoughts, Dad asked them for a lift into town and we all climbed into their small car. Bessie and I brought our dolls to keep them safe (thankfully, they had been sleeping in their cradles in the basement).

The wife kept mumbling to herself, “What a honeymoon… what a honeymoon… what a honeymoon!” Electric poles and wires were littered across the main road and it soon became apparent that some roads were unsafe. We took a detour and snaked through long country roads and eventually reached the city. Mom stepped on a nail climbing out of the garage so we went to a friend for a tetanus injection. Then we were driven to the home of my dad’s colleague where we spent a few nights.

It took days of washing before all the dirt and gravel came out  of our hair. The Red Cross and the Mennonite Relief Committee stepped in immediately. Friends came from far away to help clear the land. Church and other organizations came full force. We went to the Red Cross Outlet and chose as many clothes as we needed or wanted for free. We sisters were overwhelmed by the rows and rows of clothes to try on. I wore that colourful, multi-pleated skirt endlessly. Fear vanished; it was all part of a big adventure. Our parents had always managed to look after our family, and we expected nothing less. We were too young to understand the huge financial burden it was to our parents. We never thought of the stress involved in losing everything valuable, like our photos and other irreplaceable memorabilia. Rebuilding our home and keeping our family together was enough to concentrate on. With all the support and aid that came in, our expectation of our parents heroically managing every situation was met.

For a while we rented an apartment. When the land had been cleared, we moved into a trailer on our property. We kids thought living in the trailer was great fun, like luxurious camping, although our parents didn’t feel the same way. It was very cramped living —only possible because we had nothing to put in it. Finally, the basement was repaired and liveable.  After moving into the basement, which seemed spacious and homey, the upstairs was slowly rebuilt.

A few kids in Bessie’s class died that day.

Death is naked before God; Destruction lies uncovered…
Job 26:6  NIV

We lived. Now I know that tornadoes are appostrogetic. If Dad had waited even a minute longer to drop Betsy back home, both he and Betsy would have been gone… but this was not God’s plan.

*The photo is the tornado that hit our house; afterwards it spilt into a double tornado and traveled down a well-used highway near us. It is about to devour, ravish and kill many in a mobile home park.

Have I imagined this tornado to be a training ground for the future? I never thought of it as being a training ground at all; not for life or love. “Life,” a word meaning so much more than a dictionary can express.  I have figured it out: “a wonderful and frightening thing, designed by God.”

“Death is naked before God; destruction lies uncovered…” Job was right.

“The most awesome mission of the storm is that it reminds us that the universe is never actually a calm garden with flowers! Peace is always an exception in this universe!”
― Mehmet Murat ildan

As the ceiling shuddered above us, there was an earth-shaking, appostrogetic tumult above our heads that entered our whole being and made our innards shake and tremble. Betsy was terrified (as were we all) and continuously uttered piercing, high-pitched little screams into my ear. Only I could hear them… and that is quite something, because she wasn’t whispering! Earth, dust and pebbles were raining down on us from the floorboards above our heads as though it was a sieve. I held the candles, one in each hand, so tight, that I broke them both in half. (Later I experimented to see how easy that is to do; it’s pretty close to impossible.)

Suddenly, a tree shot through a basement window about three feet in front of our faces —no one was hurt, not even a scratch. Then, as fast as it started, it finished. An ominous silence filled the room. As suddenly as it came, that appostrogetic din disappeared. We had all nearly stopped breathing, as though breathing may have worsened what was already happening.

 “Stay here,” Dad said. This time everyone did as told without questioning. Dad manoeuvred his way around the tree and disappeared into the next room where the stairs were; the staircase was still intact. A few minutes later he returned, “It’s okay, follow me.”

We crept out from behind the bed and under the tree in single file; nervously, silently and obediently following Dad in hushed fear with Betsy and I pulling up the rear. The next room was dishevelled, but intact. I looked up the staircase and saw it was littered with a maze of wires and garbage. A big piece of blue paper covered the top of the stairs. I wondered where that paper came from and how it got into our house? It finally hit me; that was not paper, it was the sky! Where was the house?

Dad, unaware of what was at the top of the stairs and in order to avoid the wires, led us through the basement door into the garage. He attempted to pull the garage door up, but could only budge it a couple of feet. Two pairs of feet came into view standing on the other side of the door. Their hands came down and also tried to lift it up. It was Susie and her brother Tom. They hurried over from their destroyed house to make sure that Betsy was alright. Dad told us to crawl underneath the garage door. Susie and Tom had been home alone and made it only half way down the basement stairs when the tornado hit their house. They fled to a safe wall of the basement, but narrowly missed being hit by the kitchen knives which flew down the staircase after them.

We were on the basement level of the house outside the garage door, but walked further out and up the driveway towards the road; looking back, the scene was chaos. The house was completely gone, nowhere to be seen. Gone with the wind. It was not even on our land. Nothing of ours was on our land, but on it were a lot of other people’s things. It had become home to a pulverized piano hanging in a tree, a crushed car, and other assorted smashed and broken objects of all sizes. It looked like a garbage dump. All our possessions had disappeared in the tempest. A lone figure, an embarrassment to our bleak foundation, was a toilet, standing arrogantly against the backdrop of a magnificent sunset, which dared to paint itself in the sky. The fireplace in the living room raised its head; a chimney as a bold tombstone, untouched and proud. The stone mantle above the fireplace, was still intact. A marble statue of a head, carved by Uncle Paul, stood resolutely on it. We called the sculpture the Banana Man because his head was shaped like a banana. One hand covered its mouth and the Banana Man stared upon the nothingness in deep meditation. Destruction lay uncovered. The whole house had flown away and vanished in that powerful speeding black wall, and we stood stock still staring.

Down the road at the Smucker’s house, a car “dropped” by and landed just in front of the kitchen; my aunt and uncles investigate.

~Follow next week’s story; Appostrogetic Part 3~

Death is naked before God;
Destruction lies uncovered…
Job: 26:6:

NIV

I was in 5th grade and proudly walked into school wearing my new red and orange multi-pleated skirt; there were so many pleats in it that I could almost have drawn it in a full circle over my head! Of course, I never did that, but I could have. I chose the skirt at the Red Cross emergency relief store. I loved it. My three sisters and I selected all the clothes we wanted and did not pay one penny for them, just because we had survived. In fact, the whole neighborhood was fine. We were all living miracles. Absolutely everything else had been lost. The only thing we had left was each other and a memory etched into our lives forever. And to think, it had the nerve to happen on that gorgeous Palm Sunday afternoon!

The day was picture-perfect for outdoor gallivanting in the woods with our buddies. I was eleven years old, and we, the girls of the neighborhood, were dressed up in outlandish outfits from Aunt Katy’s dress-up box. We were playing pioneers in the backwoods of their house, making grass huts from long wild dried grass. I loved the way the wind blew my hair and long dress. I felt like a sailboat bobbing on the waves. It was eerily windy that day —we could have been pirates on the sea, or marauders in a desert storm. A smoldering orange dusk was looming and nightfall was settling in sooner than usual. Aunt Katy shouted from the porch, “Girls, you better come in now, there are some weather warnings out. Time to go home.” Reluctantly we left our wind-whipped thatch huts and moved towards the house.

“You’d better skedaddle home now,” Katie cautioned.
We threw our clothes into the dress-up box and waved goodbye. Our house was furthest away, but Betsy and her sister Susie walked with us for a while. We dropped them off at their house and then it was only my sister Bessie and I walking down the road.

It was time for our Sunday evening T.V. program, Walt Disney’s The Wonderful World of Color. That was our “allowed” program and it always came with popcorn. Mom and Dad joined us in the basement where the TV. was already on. Weather warnings began interrupting the show. There was a chance of tornadoes; not a concern to us. We used to live in Kansas where tornadoes were rampant —the land of Dorothy and her Wizard of Oz. Muff Potter, our beagle, lay faithfully at my father’s feet, oblivious to everything happening around him. The TV. began to blur and make static noises and all kinds of squiggly lines stretched across the screen. We gave up trying to see the program. Bessie proposed, “Let’s go outside!” Unanimously we agreed and scrambled outside to enjoy the wind.

Two houses down, Betsy and Susie were also outside on their driveway. Betsy trotted over and excitedly told us of the white cyclone they’d seen in a field in the distance; they even saw it take a board off the neighbors’ barn roof! As we talked, a mouse fell out of heaven and landed kerplunk in the driveway. Strange things were happening. The sky was raining mice! As we talked the wind rose and Dad ordered us to the basement.

“Frieda, go and get some candles in case the lights go out, I’m going to drive Betsy home.” That meant things were serious —she only lived one-minute walk away. I grabbed two long, red Christmas candles from the kitchen cupboard still assuming that Dad was overly worried. The rest of the family headed to the basement. Dad led Betsy to the garage which was at basement level. Half a minute later, Dad was back and Betsy was still with him. He’d driven down the driveway and looked to the right; an enormous black wall was heading straight at them … it was about to come down our road. Reversing at full speed he and Betsy sprinted into the basement. He commanded in his powerful, but panicky voice, “Get into the basement! Fast!”

I was coming down the stairs with a long red candle in each hand when I intercepted him and Betsy as they came from the garage. He pushed me in line behind Betsy, but I was still unsure of how serious to take him, even though his voice was bellowing like a fire alarm. We all, including Mom, galloped obediently ahead of him as he herded us like sheep, propelling us into the farthest corner of the basement behind a double bed. He then fell down across us the best he could, creating a human shield. Dad was not a small man, so his body made an extra heavy shield on the pile of bodies underneath. Betsy and I were first in the parade; we were squished far into the corner and remained standing on our own where Dad couldn’t reach us.

*The photo is actually the tornado that hit our house, taken just after it ripped down our road.

~Follow next week’s story as it continues in Appostrogetic Part 2~

As for grief, you’ll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you’re drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. And all you can do is float.

Quote From: The Loss Foundation

“NO!” I tugged hard on his arm to pull him back into the doorframe. There were no “ifs” or “buts;” Lara was at home with her children and some of the boys —at least we knew she was “at home.” Our son, Asher, and most of the older boys were hiking in the mountains, far from home with only the cover of a tent; obviously, there was nothing we could do to help them… and so we worried. The storm seemed to come swooping down from the Himalayas where the boys were hiking.

Suddenly, I felt overwhelmed; subconscious fears erupted inside of me and kept me tightly clutching onto Yip’s arm, as though he or I would soon be lifted out into the turbulence. My experience of Storm, like Déjà vu, fifty years ago, interfered and distorted the present mayhem. It was all too clear… I was terrified then, and again, now. Tornado ransacked my memory. I focused on again on the present storm.

Night creeped in after Storm and Wind had been washed away by Rain, which came down hard. In the aftermath, Yip and I heard the older boys screaming, “the small boys’ roof has come off and everything is getting drenched!” I ran to an east window and saw only a few boys run, but heard on the south side the sounds of many frantic padding feet. Was everyone safe?

Asher and the boys arrived home; oblivious to the havoc —unaware it had even happened. Twilight covered the land like a heavy cloak weighted against our hearts. We feared devastation and injury. The younger boys’ roof had come off; huge and ancient trees lay flat on the ground —their roots upended and bare; the campus trampoline was wrapped around a tamarind tree. Water tanks from roofs rolled along the ground and half the school roof stood full height against the row of trees bordering the neighbour’s property. When Asher was told the news, it was more than he could bear —so much recent building work destroyed. He’d returned from the hike re-energized and rejuvenated; this news was like a truck of bricks dumped on his spirit. He stayed inside with his family, unwilling to survey the damage until morning.

Yip and I had been in India since 1974. Building the campus included hard work —blood, sweat and tears to be exact. Every tree had been planted, every building carefully laid, brick by brick; yet we realized this was another episode to add to our journey. We were grateful that no one had been hurt. Houses are replaceable, trees can be planted again. Having gone through the devastation together, love drew us tight.
How could I have guessed that past experiences in my life, would be of value to me in the future —a training ground for fear and love? Perhaps the Tornado, the childhood storm which obliterated our house and our whole neighbourhood had a reason for the ruin it caused. Tornado did left its mark of fear in my heart, but love kept growing stronger and overriding fear.

Life; a word that means more than what a dictionary can express. But surprisingly, the dictionary doesn’t say, “a wonderful and frightening thing, designed by God”. We must figure that out ourselves. I forgive Weather, Wind, Twilight and Darkness, Storm and Tornado, because they can’t and won’t ever separate us from love.

For I am convinced [and continue to be convinced—beyond any doubt] that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor things present and threatening, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor any other created thing, will be able to separate us from the [unlimited] love of God, which is in

Christ Jesus our Lord.
Romans 8:38-39 AMP

A government cannot be truly just
without affirming the intrinsic value of human life.
Charles Colson

VOM-Victim-Offender Mediation:

VOM began as a programme in Kitchener, Ont. It caught on quickly and was first launched in 1978 in Elkhart, Indiana, where Ruth and I grew up. Soon, VOM was an international concept and programme to train mediators help victims and offenders make compromises and restitution for crimes.

Thus, I landed up in prison with Ruth. She invited me along with her and asked me to bring my guitar and tell my story —but I was not to mention God! I was so excited to be able to share in the women’s prison that I immediately accepted the invitation. I had no idea what I’d say and put very little time or thought into it; I knew my story so well.

The day came when Ruth and I entered the premises of the prison. We went through the door and had our first inspection. A loud “buzz” sounded and we were ushered through a second large iron door and had another inspection. After that a bell rang and we were directed through the third cast iron door. My guitar was put through an X-ray machine and we underwent a final check. There was certainly no way to sneak anything into the prison. Finally, we entered a large, rather empty room where about 15 women had gathered in their prison uniforms.

Ruth did the introductions which ignited some curiosity about this sister of hers from India. I began to tell my story but immediately ran into a big problem —my story was about God! There was absolutely no way I even had a story unless God was in it. There was no way around it. God entered my story.

I told them how depressed, mixed-up, confused, angry and bitter I’d been because of the murder of my mother. I hated God and blamed Him. I told God that He was not Love and He was not Just. And, He would never be able to restore my faith in Him. How could God be such a criminal? God wasn’t the least bothered with my attitude. He took the opportunity to soften my heart when my anger raged and my barriers were weak. I pleaded with Him, “I just want you to be my friend.” He answered immediately by giving me the Holy Spirit. It was so instantaneous and so unexpected and unfathomable, that alone, I found myself dancing.

I sang the women a few songs I’d written about God and my journey. When I looked up, almost all the women were in tears. I turned quickly and looked at Ruth for direction. She was looking perplexed, but saw the opportunity as well and announced: Why don’t we go around the circle and everyone can share their God-story!

Follow up to “Setting a Caged Bird Free”

She Saw Jesus

by Frieda McRae @2009

One life in God made complete; composed by God, her destiny,
fingerprints uniquely owned and matched with those in heaven;
In His image she was fully found;
heaven opened up to display a crown, heaven opened up to display her crown.

No more disappointed tears; no more warring mortal fear;
In her eyes, so full of hope; she saw Jesus, she saw home,
She saw Jesus and he took her home.

Heaven… Heaven… Heaven… Heaven…
For those who seek completion in him, it’s still a long road and a fight to win.
When we reach the finish line, we too will see Jesus and win our fight;
freed in his embrace, to meet life.

When in his image we are fully found,
Heaven opens up to display our crowns;
And in his image, she was fully found;
Heaven opened up to display her crown; Heaven opened up to display her crown.

She saw Jesus; she saw home; she saw Jesus and he took her home
She wanted Jesus; she wanted life, so…
He called Pari to paradise; He carried her over the finish line.

Heaven, Heaven… Jesus, Jesus… Heaven, Heaven … Jesus, Jesus

Grace, the artist, studied in India with Pari but was English. Her parents lived and worked in Japan. For her, the painting depicted her separation from her parents. She was the girl gripping the cage, unable to let go of what kept her captive to sadness and enslaved to fear. It had been a painful piece of art.

Pari found unending joy just gazing at the painting. That was why Grace gave it to her. It was placed in such a way that lying on her bed, Pari could look straight at it —and she spent many hours doing just that, pondering its meaning. Pari saw herself as the girl in the painting —Jesus sent the angel to guard and carry her through this illness. The cage was leukemia… but what about the bird?

I arrived in India to fulfill the lifetime dream of starting an orphanage. How could I have been so ignorant about what that would mean? One doesn’t think these things through as a seven-year-old. By the time I was 20, the person I had become was very different from the person who first dreamt of India. The dream person was more of a life-saving, happy-go-lucky, do-gooder type. At 20, I was far from that. I was a God-hating do-gooder (if there can be such a person). A few years prior, my mother had been murdered in our house; beaten, stripped, raped, shot and strangled. Truth is not always nice. Now I was that girl holding the caged bird —a cage full of anger, bitterness and confusion. I despised God and did not care whether I lived or died. I did not go to India as a self-made savior, but I went in search of truth.

Jesus visited Pari in a vision while she was in the hospital; she longed to be with Him. Because she’d seen Him and knew His love for her, Pari changed in character so drastically that her parents couldn’t recognize her. She was no longer locked into her body of death… she had escaped and she had found life. Once, Pari’s mother asked her, “Are you with Jesus much?” Surprised by the question, she replied, “I’m with Jesus all the time.” No one doubted that anymore. A few minutes after successfully convincing her family that THEY had to release her, she announced, “I’m going home,” and she left them. Pari, the white bird, was freed, no more fear, no more death; she had been given permission to live.

Grace learned that her parents were praying for her daily. When she understood their deep love and heartfelt concern, she had assurance that they were as close as their prayers; they had never left. Disappointment flew away. She was released and put the cage down and let the bird fly free.

In India, I lived in one room with fifty girls who spoke no English and I spoke no Hindi. There was no water, electricity, vehicle or phone. I had a head full of lice and so did the girls. But those girls loved me and fought over who would hold my hand and wash my feet. The self-centeredness of worrying about my own needs vanished as my heart grew in love for them. I began to see past myself. I became so desperate and unhappy with who I’d become that I finally let down my guard of hate and was humbled. Alone one night, I prayed, “Jesus, all I want is to be your friend, to know you and talk to you like a friend.” I started my real life that night. Jesus entered the room, and I knew He was there. Life can begin at twenty, unless you are as smart as Pari, who began life at fourteen.

How do you set a caged bird free? Identify the cage; whose prison is it? Seek to know what needs to be done to free the bird —humble yourself and do it. Set the cage down and don’t ever pick it up again.

Listen to the song as you read the words below. It is the musical follow-up dedicated to children across the world who are forced into work, some who become garbage-pickers in order to eat and feed their family. But, Jesus said,

“You are my family, you who hear God’s word and do it.
I have no mother and I have no brother,
But them who love to follow God’s word.”

Read the three-part story:  A Sad Story

Jesus Said

Poor little child left all alone
Left in the cold without a coat
Without someone to keep you warm
Poor little child, we wish you weren’t born!

We have a mother; she looks after us
We have our brothers they’re a very fine bunch
We live together in a warm little house
And you are the child who will die untouched.

Yes, poor little children you live far and near
We see you on the news
And on our street corner, too
Your world won’t have you, we have the world
Our world wants us, in fact, we are the world!

We are the world, the voice that goes forth
We are the judges a new truth we force
We are the ones to step in God’s place
To create a utopia for the whole human race, oh!

Jesus said you are my family
You who hear God’s word and do it
I have no mother and I have no brother
But them who love to follow God’s word
It is they who are my mother and my brother
It is they who are my family.

Children’s voices singing: Jesus said…

यीशु ने कहा, वह मेरा परिवार
जो वचन को सुनते और करते हैं।
मेरी ना माँ ना है कोई भाई।
वह जो खुदा को मानते हैं।
वह ही मेरी माँ, वह ही मेरा भाई, वह ही है मेरा परिवार हैं।
परिवार।

[Continued from Part 2; ending]

When we reached home, Papa began to act crazy; we understood how much he really loved her. He began running here and there like a mad-man out of control.  He was even laughing. It made us cry to watch him.

Before mother died, she begged the teachers at school, “take my children and put them in the hostel.” I went to work at 3:00 a.m. and came back home at 8:00 a.m. School was at 9:00 a.m. —it was difficult. I was only 7 when mother died. Sanjeev couldn’t even walk. He was about 2 and was always carried around by Mom. My sister was five when Mom died; she began to carry him.

People told us nonsense because we were little and they enjoyed scaring us, “At night Your mother comes and knocks on our door”. We were afraid to come out of our house. I had to go to work with the women who went in the evening. I’d earn 50 to 100 rupees and buy vegetables. I made food for all of us. Whatever my brother earned went into the house rent. Papa was drinking. Finally, Mommy’s wishes were granted and arrangements were made for us children.

The first to leave were my twin brothers; they were admitted in a hostel 60 km outside of Dehradun. I haven’t seen them for a few years. My sister was next; admitted into a hostel about 30 km outside of Dehradun. When she went, there was no one to hold Sanjeev. He just lied on the ground crying. After two or three days I started carrying him around; I couldn’t bear to see him like that.

The principal of our school located another hostel, Shishya where Sanjeev and I were admitted. I was really scared to go to a hostel because I’d heard bad things about such places. We were both crying, “We don’t want to go to a hostel…” But the choice was not ours to make. Some relatives said that my older brother should go to the hostel instead of me because I earned a lot. If he got caught stealing, he would go to jail. If I got caught, the police would leave me. Some parents sent their kids out alone, but not my mother.

Shishya had a beautiful campus and the best surprise was that the people were so nice. We ended up wanting to spend our holidays on the campus instead of going anywhere else. I lost my mother, but at Shishya I gained a lot of Aunties; Ruth Auntie was very special. After a few months, we got news of my father’s death. Kiran Uncle heard this news much earlier, but because Papa died soon after we were admitted to Shishya, he didn’t tell us right away. Uncle wanted to save us from being sad again so quickly. Even though he waited, no night would have been good. We were very sad again and became orphans. I thought, “if my father was here, we’d be happy —just to have someone, one parent, even though he drank —it would be wonderful.” Sanjeev was too small to understand, but he didn’t sleep. I knew he had caught on to something. He used to ask me where’s Mommy and where’s Papa? I’d tell him “Papa’s at home.” Telling the truth was too painful, so even I held out on the truth as long as I could. I asked my brother how my father died. He said “Papa was so sad mother was gone that he started drinking even more; he was mad that she was dead.”                                                       

My aunts took all my mother’s jewelry that was meant to be my sister’s special memories of my mother. Nothing was left, except what we could remember. Mommy had told us stories. Her father, treated her badly. Every night he would send her outside to sleep. She’d have to find somewhere, maybe with her friends or relatives. Her parents, my grandparents, used to drink and fight. My mother’s elder sister also drank a lot. I heard she died soon after I came to the hostel. My mother met my father and married him when she was very young; she no longer had to run from her house. They were nearby, but had their own house.

My sister came to Shishya. Her hostel is a hostel for both boys and girls; bad things happen there. I always tell my sister that she has to be good. She is sensible, but emotional. I like my sister; she loves us a lot. Sanjeev didn’t talk to her when she came, so she hesitated and didn’t hold him. But when she was leaving, he wept.

My colony is still the same; depressive and dangerous. It is filled with evil and fear. At Shishya I felt such freedom. Part of that is from knowing Jesus. I was eight when I came to Shishya and I’ve been here eight years. Being here is good, but when I think about not being able to save Mommy, I’m still sad.

[Continued from previous week]

PART TWO

That night Mommy took me for work. It was raining heavily. I told her we should not go now in this weather; it was really not nice. It was a very bad, bad, sad night. We really shouldn’t have gone that night.

We both went. We were wet. We walked for about 4 kilometres in the pouring rain; then, we came upon a building that was being constructed. There were some iron rods lying on the ground that would be worth good money; my mother said, “Let’s take these.” So, we collected a few and took them away from the building. Mommy walked ahead, leading the way with the iron rods and I was at the tail end helping carry the rods. It was too dark to see clearly; we didn’t see the electric pole with loose wires dangling down from it. When the rods hit the pole with the live wires, Mommy was thrown down. The rods she had been carrying were now on top of her but still touching the electric pole. I also held the rods but nothing happened to me. Mommy was yelling but I couldn’t hear or understand her; no sound was coming from her voice. Finally, I heard, “Save me! Save me!” I dropped my end of the rods and with all my strength I tried to get the rods off by using a branch, but it gave me a shock. There were many houses nearby, so she said, “Call for help!” I started shouting crazily, “Save my mother, save my mother!” A man appeared —he was so bad. He took one look at my mother, went inside and closed the door.

I was seven years old and I didn’t know what to do. I ran the four kilometers back home in record time, arrived, and nearly fainted. My Papa was at the shop next-door. He saw fear written all over my face and alarm in my eyes and asked, “What happened?” I was crying a lot, “Mommy is getting an electric shock!” He started to go, but I knew he was drunk and was afraid of what he might do. I thought of my older brother, “We should call my brother, he will know what to do.” I banged his door to wake him for what seemed like five minutes. Finally, he came out. “Mommy is getting an electric shock; we have to go and help her.” He started running. I was afraid and said, “you won’t be able to do it, let’s call Uncle.” We went to his house and called him as well, then all of us got into an auto-rickshaw. By the time we reached Mommy, it was too late. She was dead. I was so upset, and so sad that I couldn’t help her. It was too late. I felt very bad that I didn’t save her. Maybe if I had thought of a better way, I could have saved her. That thought went over and over again in my mind; the chances of saving her surely had been there. I was young, but I missed it.

They took the iron rods off her and took her in an auto. We were going to the hospital to admit her. My Uncle said, “What is the point of taking her to the hospital when she is dead? We should take her home.” When we reached home, Papa began to act crazy. Then we saw how much he really loved her. He began running here and there like a mad-man, totally out of control.  He was even laughing. Watching him made us cry. It was very sad.