THE RESIDENTIAL SCHOOL
Expectation. Trepidation. Anticipation.
Feeling all of these things, we arrived at the Kamloops Indian Residential School. The overcast sky captured our somber mood. Not fully knowing what to expect, my husband, our friend Frank and myself turned into the driveway of the former institution that has captured the news headlines for months: 215 unmarked graves discovered. Shocking and triggering for the families and survivors of an extremely dark period of Canada’s history.
The imposing red brick buildings stood against the Thompson River. The main building from behind stood four or five stories high, with the upper floors containing windows that looked to have been original to the construction back in 1890 and then rebuilt in 1923 after a fire. Another white structure, that may have been a dormitory, stood apart from the main buildings, also looking like early 20th century architecture. My eyes took in the sights; my heart searched for meaning.
Walter, Frank and I had stopped to pick up a bouquet of flowers. We were preparing to take a video of Walter and Frank placing a bouquet near the monument. But the First Nations lady who was cleaning the monument indicated we could set our offering on a table and she would see to it that it was placed there. Others were bent or kneeling in fresh soil, arranging coloured stones in a circle. Some large flat slabs of stone, painted orange, leaned against a tree, but I didn’t have time to read the black hand-written messages on them.
This monument stood on the edge of a large, groomed soccer field.
Behind us, the residential school stood, looking very sturdy. It had been re-purposed by the Indigenous band for administrative use and for a museum. We were not allowed in; everything was closed off to the public.
Anti-climactic.
I am not sure what I was expecting. But I was praying to be open to whatever God was going to say, however He was going to impress this place upon us.
We had spent the morning listening to the son of a residential school survivor from northern Ontario. His mother and two uncles had been kidnapped, taken by the RCMP and an Indian agent forcibly in order to attend school away from their home community. His grandmother fought for them but being handicapped by a childhood accident, she had only one leg and a wooden crutch with which to defend her children. She was charged with assault of a police officer and spent time in jail for her actions. (This son explained that he uses the term kidnapped, because when he would share that his mother went to residential school, his listeners would glaze over, having been desensitized. I had felt the shock of his use of that word but it was true. Agonizingly true.)
*G. gave a heart-wrenching narrative of his family history. His mother and uncles attended school and did not return the same. They each were beaten, abused, refused family visits and then released in their mid-teens. When G.’s mother came back to her home community, she had no idea how to live there. No knowledge of family, culture or social cues. One day, she had gone to the Hudson Bay store to get groceries. She met a white man there from the south, the city of Toronto, and shortly thereafter ended up marrying him. She gave birth to six boys; G. made reference to a sister, also. They lived in abject poverty as their dad was an alcoholic and their mother raised the children. She had not learned how to be a wife and mother. G.’s home life was filled with fear, anger, abuse and brokenness.
One by one, G. told the stories of his brothers. He was the youngest, so he gave their stories as he recalled. Addictions, violence, abuse, poverty, escape, murder, and mental illness are just some of the symptoms of the tragedies in their lives. We followed the ups and downs of his journey through trauma after trauma. He had to identify the body of his brother after another brother had stabbed him for beating up their father. How does anyone survive this?
By nothing short of a miracle, he met his future wife when he was living in Sudbury with his brother. They were invited to a church and he only went because of the promise of a meal after the service. G. heard the Gospel through the testimony of someone who had met Jesus and been profoundly changed by that decision of faith. He didn’t fully understand the message but was drawn to return to that church. It didn’t hurt that the pastor had several pretty daughters, so he did come back for another service with mixed motives!
He eventually prayed to become a Christian and immediately felt joy and happiness. But the pain he carried, the suppressed memories and unhealthy thought patterns would plague him through his journey.
As we listened to this testimony, all of us at this meeting were impacted. Shock. Grief. Relating from our own life experiences. Anger at the evil. Frustration at abuse and no one stopping it!
And then Walter, Frank and I went to the site where those types of atrocities had happened. We were halfway across the country from G.’s community, but being there made the stories all the more real. And then we were blocked from seeing inside the building or setting our own flowers at the memorial. We weren’t sure what to do with all we had heard in the morning and all we had built up to express in some small way. We walked back to the vehicle in the parking lot, having taken a few pictures, and then unceremoniously drove away.
G. opened his testimony with Scriptures from II Kings about Solomon and the ships that he had constructed. They were built strong and sturdy, ready to sail off on the seas. Their journey was successful and they brought back tons of gold for the nation of Israel. In contrast, Solomon’s grandson, Jehoshaphat built a fleet of ships and also sent them off to acquire gold. But they had barely been launched when they met with tragedy and sunk, completely unsuccessful in the purpose for which they were built.
Some lives are like these ships. They are designed for success and have all the great investment and support to succeed. They accomplish the purposes for which they were created. Others never have a chance. They begin with potential but circumstances set them up for failure and destruction. G.’s wife came from a loving and strongly Christian family. She grew up safe and protected, given all the advantages of biblical principles and opportunities for success. Her story included the detail that as a young girl, she felt compelled to pray for her future husband. She began to ask God to protect him from drugs, alcohol and other temptations. Knowing her parents would not allow her to even associate with such people, she wondered what kind of man would become her husband and why would God lead her to someone who might be from that dark lifestyle! But years later, G. would hear of her prayers and would say: “So you’re the reason I never had fun back then!”
I took a picture of a teddy bear and tiny shoes placed by a tree on the residential school property. Although G.’s mother survived her years at the residential school, the damage done to her as a woman was never healed in her lifetime. The ongoing effects of her pain rippled through her sons. She married an abusive man and lived her days in fear and helplessness. Her husband died from his alcoholism. The last words he heard from his father were: “What the hell are you doing here?” (When G. visited his dad in the hospital on his deathbed.)
G. attributes his life change, his successful marriage and family and career and ministry opportunities to his hope in the Lord Jesus Christ. That’s it. But the process of healing has been lengthy, with setbacks, but also much grace and courage.
Our hearts are touched. There is hope.
