Could something so normal to me be so foreign to someone else?

“My uncle tried to kill my dad,” was my matter of fact answer. Could something so normal to me be so foreign to someone else? From the look on their faces around the table last night, Yes, this was uncharted territory for them. Trying to make it not seem overly dramatic, I told the story.

I was in elementary school. My sister and I shared a room with bunk beds at the time. Yelling in our house was not abnormal, but tonight was different. There was the sound of scuffling, furniture moving, heavy footsteps, things falling, mom screaming (not in anger, but terror). Angel and I ran into the living room and the picture is seared into my memory to this day.

Back up a little bit, we had this living room set that was brown and cream with log cabins and trees printed all over them. We had been in Maine visiting our family in our large blue dodge caravan. My dad found this “lovely" set of furniture at some sort of outdoor swap meet. Angel and I were super excited about new furniture, because new was such a rare word in our house. We didn’t realize the implications of traveling back to Virginia with the new furniture or our excitement would have dwindled quickly.

To this day, I don’t know how my dad jammed a full sized sofa and side chair into our van, but he worked miracles. The only issue was that my sister and I were on the blue velvet built-in-bed in the back of the van with about 2 feet of space and no air conditioning. I’m not sure when air conditioning was invented, but we didn’t have it in our house or our vehicles so I wasn’t sure it existed. I guess I didn’t know what I was missing out on. I’m not sure what we did for that super long, very hot drive back to Virginia, but we lived to tell about it. Our saving grace was this hole in the ceiling meant for ventilation. Hallelujah! Pre-air conditioning inventiveness for the win.

So it was in the “beautiful” chair in my living room that the scene unraveled. I think that we were frozen for a minute in terror and shock. At first it was slow motion. My uncle Norman, whom I am named after, (that’s another story for another time) was straddling my dad in the chair. I couldn’t see my dad from behind the chair, but from the look of terror and the sound of my mom’s voice, I deduced that this was a very bad situation. Angel and I ran to the side of the chair and witnessed my uncle trying to choke the life out of my dad. My uncle is 6 foot 4 and was a former boxer. My dad is 6 foot and definitely not a former boxer. I could tell that my dad could not breathe and he was trying with all his might to push him off.

The next moments were a blur. I quickly came up with what I thought was a viable solution. I remember jumping on my uncle’s back and pounding on him screaming, “Get off my daddy!” My mother quickly pulled me off fearing that if my uncle noticed me, he would turn on me. He didn’t notice me. I was as effective as a fly at the time. In hindsight, It could have been my sister that jumped on his back. I don’t remember. Maybe we kind of lived through each other in the moment.

"Logical me" came up with another solution to the problem. I left the room unnoticed to call the police. I ran into the kitchen, picked up the phone attached to the wall, and expertly called 911. Then the tears flowed as the operator answered, “911. What’s your emergency?” I summarized what was happening with the choked up words, “My uncle is trying to kill my daddy.”

I’m not sure why everything deescalated from that point. Did my uncle hear me call the police? Did an angel intervene? Did my sister’s fists alert my uncle to what he was doing? When I walked back into the living room, I believe my uncle was exiting the house. My dad, on the other hand, was in very bad shape. I don’t remember anything else about that night, but I remember the next day.

Angel and I quietly walked into my parent’s bedroom to see how daddy was doing. What we saw was probably just as traumatizing as the night before. My dad’s face was swollen and black and blue beyond recognition. Angel and I had missed punches to the face given to my dad before we entered the living room the night before. The strangling was to be the finishing touch.

The doorbell rang. I went to answer. I opened it and there was my uncle, no worse for the wear, towering in the door frame. He wanted to see my dad. I don’t know what I did or said. He went in to talk to my dad and I remember him saying in a cracked voice, “I did that? I didn’t know.” A broken man exited our home. Unfortunately this was the first of a few more incidents. I guess brokenness does not always change future behavior.

Our “beautiful” living room furniture would see many more tragic episodes. When discarded years later, if they could talk, they would cheer while exiting our home on the way to the dump. The dump is smelly, but quiet and peaceful. They deserved their rest there.

Though these memories are vivid, they stopped defining me years ago. I sat at the table last night as a healed, redeemed, confident woman. When you meet me, it would be very hard to believe my story in light of who I am today. This is what healed looks like. This is what redeemed looks like. This is the result of a broken child in the hands of the Master. My uncle walked away broken and stayed broken. I walked away broken until I pleaded with the Potter to put me back together. He did.