“On a Tuesday morning I was sitting at my office desk shuffling folders, preparing for the week ahead. My draft of the Sunday bulletin needed work, but ‘it’ll do,’ I thought, and pushed it aside to watch a noisy blue jay outside my window in the courtyard. The sky was gray. In California’s central valley the f fog rolls in almost every fall morning. By noon, however, I could count on sunshine.
As I was turning my thoughts toward a sermon on Jesus’ encounter with the leper, the phone rang. I heard a frantic voice on the other end of the line and couldn’t recognize it.
‘Hello Karen,’ she said, as if we knew each other. ‘I know this is very awkward, but my name is Sarah, and I work at Child Protective Services. I have a situation I think you could best handle for us. We have an eight-year-old girl whose father is inn prison and whose mother drove her car off the side of the road and died this morning. I’m on my way to the school to pick her up. I don’t feel comfortable telling her this news, and I’d like to bring her to you so you can tell her.’
I asked Sarah for the child’s name and realized that I had met her one morning walking toward our Sunday school classrooms with a friend. She was the quieter of the two girls and looked as if she’d grown awkwardly taller ahead of her peers. She was pale and slightly disheveled. She was the kind of kid you’d notice and grow curious about.
Awaiting their arrival, I paced the floor for a few minutes and went to the bathroom. I felt nauseous and took a few deep breaths before walking slowly back to my office…
This is still one of the hardest memories I have of my years as a local pastor. I was not trauma trained…”
You can read the rest of this story and ways to provide care to trauma victims in the introduction to this book.