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By Esther Wilson
IT WAS February 16, 2009. The news report was brief but graphic.
A four-year-old boy had just witnessed his mother being shot dead at the wheel
of their car in Surrey. In an instant, his life was changed. Nothing could have
prepared him for this real life trauma.
A poignant flashback
For me, it was like a poignant flashback. The years rolled back, the memories
still fresh from a night in November, 1983.
I was born into the home of a farming family in Northern Ireland in the early
1970s. My dad and mum both worked on the farm, and my older brother and I
enjoyed all the adventures and hard work that come with farming life.
Yet, already the scene had been set in Ireland for the violent years that became
known around the globe as ‘the Troubles’ – years which claimed over 3,000 lives and maimed and injured thousands of
others.
Riots, gunfire and explosions, unrest and fear were part of life in Northern
Ireland, as communities were split apart in bitter division over religion.
My dad was not involved with the security forces, and therefore we didn’t need to take extra measures to ensure safety, as so many others did at that
time.
We didn’t need to look under the car for booby traps before we set out on a journey, or
keep looking behind our backs to make sure we were not being targeted. Safety
was not an issue for us.
Simple faith, severely tested
As a family, we attended a small church at Mountain Lodge, where my dad was an
elder. My parents had brought us up to respect both Catholics and Protestants
in our border town community, and at a young age I followed their example in
developing a simple faith in Jesus. It was a faith that was to be severely
tested the year I turned 12, during a church service.
That evening, there was only enough strength for my dad to run up the centre
aisle of the church, only breath enough for him to shout out to us to get down
and take cover.
There was only time enough for him, with the blood pouring from his head, to
save the lives of those gathered in the small wooden church.
No time for goodbye
There was time enough for him to save us, but no time for us to say goodbye. He breathed his last
breath at the front of the church, on that vivid night of November 20, 1983.
Just moments before, dad had been welcoming people at the door. Suddenly, masked
gunmen had walked in and opened fire, killing two men instantly and mortally
injuring my dad.
Gunfire halted worship that night. As the sounds of gunfire faded, the reality
of what had just happened became clear. Three men lay dead. Many more were
injured. This was not supposed to happen; this was not part of the plan!
The days that followed were a blur, as our quiet farm became a haven for people
coming from far and near to pay their respects and mourn the loss of a husband,
father, son, brother and friend.
No talk of grief
Grieving the loss of my father, friend and mentor did not come easily. As a
family, our way of processing grief was to not talk about it. I soon learned
not to say anything, as I didn’t want to make my mum cry.
It wasn’t until almost 15 years later that a long deep process of healing and grieving
would begin. This process was the key that would unlock that empty dark place
in my heart that I’d put the lid on so many years earlier, watching my dad being buried.
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At this time, I began to envisage my dad’s death from a different perspective, seeing it as the same process that births
an oak tree: A small acorn, planted in the ground, has to be broken and die in
order for new life to emerge.
In the dark, its roots are being formed and are making their way deep into the
soil – roots that will be needed to make the resulting tree stand tall and strong.
A tree in Israel
Armed with this new perspective, I found a framed picture in a drawer of our
home, with an inscription which read: “A tree has been planted in Israel in memory of David Wilson, who died 20th
November 1983.”
I went back to re-read newspapers from the time of the event, as well as the
large number of sympathy cards we’d received. There was a letter with my name on it.
It was a letter from a friend of my dad’s that I did not recall having ever received. In the letter, that friend told me
what my dad had been like and why I should be proud to be his daughter. The
process of healing continued and took root in my heart.
When Jesus hung on the cross, He said, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.” (Luke 23:34) And through his pain he still had time for the thief hanging
beside him. Even on the cross, he still heard the heart of the broken.
Darkness covered the earth that day, just as darkness hung over the earth the
night of November 20, 1983, when my dad laid down his life to save us.
Killers’ plans thwarted
Whatever those gunmen had come to accomplish, their plans had been thwarted.
I learned to sing, “You give and take away, but my heart will choose to say, ‘Lord, blessed be Your name.’” Now, as a worship leader, those words are very real to me, and a source of
great comfort.
God also continues to give me many father figures in my life.
Healing does not happen in isolation. I have learned by experience that real
healing takes time. It occurs only in a place where God’s presence, God’s peace and God’s people are.
In Jeremiah 29:11, God promises: “I know the plans I have for you . . . plans to prosper and not to harm you,
plans to give you hope and a future.”
Although there will be times in our life when these words seem impossible to
reconcile with our grief, God does have a plan for us – and we do indeed have a future and a hope.
Esther Wilson lives in Abbotsford, and is worship director at Port Kells
Congregational Church in Surrey. She accepts occasional speaking engagements in
churches, and serves on a global outreach team with Asia Span International.
June 2009
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