As a young boy, my family moved around every couple of years. The places we live are laced with memories both good and bad ones. Some of my TILT stories are full of shame and fear, but not this one. We once lived in a town called North Canton. I was just a little lad full of energy waiting for adventure. Our house sat on the top of a huge hill. Our back yard was a giant slope to the bottom of the hill where there were trees. You couldn’t sled ride down the hills because of the trees. And I wasn’t allowed to go outside and play in the snow anyway because I always got sick with bronchitis every winter.
When bad, sad, or scary things are happening in our lives, we must find places that feel safe and give us a feeling of freedom. My favorite places were discovered by climbing to the top of the trees. The higher the better. At the bottom of the hill I had a favorite tree I would climb. No one could see or find me. Just below the big tree lived our neighbors, Ledford family. They raised raccoons, and we loved going over to their house to see the raccoons.
One day I think I was trying to get out of going to another boring recital or music concert I detested that my parents would make me attend. I went down the hill and climbed my favorite tree. I remember the courage and strength and confidence and freedom I felt climbing trees where no one could find me or hurt me or make me do anything I didn’t want to do.
I have so many fond memories of climbing trees, but not this one. I was at the top of the tree when I slipped and fell all the way to the bottom of the tree. I landed in the middle of the base of the tree on a sharp branch that pierced through my inner thigh like a spear. If the scary part was the helpless feeling of falling fast out of the tree, the incredible pain part was having the spear-like branch stab me through my leg.
Once I realized what happened, and that I wasn’t dead, I had a horrible problem to deal with. I couldn’t walk. I pulled the spear branch out of my leg, and I had to crawl up the mighty hill like an army man. Part way up the hill my mother found me. She picked me up and rushed me to the hospital where I got stitches in my leg. I still have a cool battle scar that I’m proud of, and I got out of going to the boring music concert. Although my mom probably freaked out a little seeing all the blood and her wounded little boy trying to crawl up the hill, God was already showing me His love and compassion through my mother.
How we reflect on our life stories determines how we feel about people, places, and experiences. Learning to reflect well doesn’t just happen. God desires to take us on a healing journey to restore our bodies, our memories, and our reflective lenses. He works together in all things for His glory and to conform us to His likeness, even if we don’t know or recognize Him yet.
How do reflect on your stories?
Who are you sharing your stories with?
Where do you go to find a feeling of safety?