I imagine it was a crisp, cold but beautiful day. It seems it’s the loveliest of days where life changes forever. I imagine that Mount
Rainier, in all it’s spectacular, awesome and terrifying beauty – with the blues, greys and breathtaking snow-capped peaks – gazed over the farm like a giant portrait of strength.
I imagine it was an ordinary morning. Everyone up at daybreak, the family clothed and fed by my great grandmother, animals fed and watered.
The children were getting older in 1906. The eldest, Olga, was 13. Emily & Julius had their first three children in rapid succession, so Ida was 12 and Alfred 11. They waited a few years for the baby – my paternal grandfather – who was only 8 on that February day.
Their mother was in the kitchen while their father was outside working. The oldest three children were engaged in the main room, doing what children did in 1906. Playing, chatting away happily. Alfred sat on a stool engaged with a toy. The baby had made his way into a bedroom where he was exploring.
Today’s society would ask: why was there a gun in the house? Why was it loaded? Why was it not secured? It was the parents’ fault, they say. But it was a different time in a different environment. It was essentially still the frontier complete with wild animals and dangers. Having rifles out in the home was normal.
I’ve known about the shooting my entire life but I always assumed it was a hunting accident, with Dad and boys out hunting, learning at their father’s side. However, a few years ago I uncovered the newspaper article about the accident and discovered it happened at home, violently interrupting what was an otherwise typical winter morning on the farm.
Years ago, I felt led to pursue my family history, primarily to prove to ourselves that we are Jewish! But as I researched and unearthed information, stories and records, I realized that the story of my family is actually quite current: gun violence, addiction, sexual abuse, mental illness, trauma. All of these have plagued my family for over a century. When I read that article, the weight of the event was heavy and troubling. For years now I have maintained that our family has never fully recovered from this singular event. Alcohol abuse, always an issue, worsened. My grandfather died in 1933 at the age of 36 amidst murky circumstances (involving alcohol) leaving his wife and 4 children to descend into a life of poverty and abuse. They survived but with permanent scars that plagued them for the remainder of their lives.
The rifle, in fact, belonged to Alfred. It was in an adjoining bedroom and had fallen to the ground. My grandfather picked the rifle up. “It is believed that in some manner the hammer caught on the round of a low chair, and as the boy pulled the gun around it discharged, the bullet entering the brain of Alfred and causing instant death.” (Tacoma Daily News, Feb 10, 1906)
What were the odds? Had he actually aimed the gun at his brother he would have missed. A life lost, a family traumatized more than they already were, and lives altered permanently. It caused a ripple effect that is felt to this day.
There hasn’t been a tremendous amount of research done on generational trauma. The largest study to-date is of the children and grandchildren of Holocaust survivors. Trauma alters our development, affects our physiological development and conditions us for how we interact with the world and therefore our descendants.
Many of us have lived under the weight of family trauma – in fact, most of us. I have a friend – a born-again Christian who is a direct descendant of Brigham Young. She can tell you all about the weight of generational sin and trauma.
It’s safe to say, most of us probably contend with this somewhat. Maybe not an accidental shooting by an 8 year old, but traumatic nonetheless.
And yet… GOD.
God very specifically reached out to me as a child and drew me to Him. He reached out to other family members as well. In my generation there are probably the most Christians. We still struggle. We contend with the trauma of our parents and grandparents. But Jesus paid the price for that pain and that sorrow. He wants to take it away. He wants to heal us. And He will if we let Him.
Consistently since the mid-90s God reminds me of the scene where Jesus asked the man at the pool “Do you want to be healed?” (John 5:6) We first need to want it, but sometimes it’s so heavy and so massive that in many respects it’s our constant companion. Like a too-warm blanket we can’t or won’t take off. Instead, we pull it more tightly around our shoulders, afraid of exposing ourselves.
Jesus has redeemed not only you and I, but he has redeemed our sins, our traumas and the sins and traumas of our families of origin. He reaches out to us and says, “here – give me that heavy blanket. I will protect you instead.”
Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, “He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.”
Surely he will save you from the fowler’s snare and from the deadly pestilence. He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart. …
If you say, “The Lord is my refuge,” and you make the Most High your dwelling, no harm will overtake you, no disaster will come near your tent. For he will command his angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways; they will lift you up in their hands, so that you will not strike your foot against a stone. You will tread on the lion and the cobra; you will trample the great lion and the serpent.
“Because he loves me,” says the Lord, “I will rescue him; I will protect him, for he acknowledges my name. He will call on me, and I will answer him; I will be with him in trouble, I will deliver him and honor him.16 With long life I will satisfy him and show him my salvation.” Psalm 91
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