Ellen Janzen - The Day the Mountains Crashed into the Sea

The Day the Mountains Crashed into the Sea

Surviving the devastation of childhood loss

ELLEN JANZEN

The Day the Mountains Crashed into the Sea
Surviving the devastation of childhood loss
2019 Ellen Janzen. All rights reserved.

Printed in the United States of America

Published by Author Academy Elite
PO Box 43, Powell, OH 43035
www.AuthorAcademyElite.com

Requests for information should be addressed to:
mofpublishing@proinbox.com

Identifiers:
LCCN: 2019918539
ISBN: 978-1-64746-040-2 (paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-64746-041-9 (hardback)
ISBN: 978-1-64746-042-6 (ebook)
Available in paperback, hardback, e-book, and audiobook

Scripture quotations marked CSB have been taken from the Christian Standard Bible, Copyright 2017 by Holman Bible Publishers. Used by permission. Christian Standard Bible and CSB are federally registered trademarks of Holman Bible Publishers.

Scripture quotations marked (NLT) are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, a Division of Tyndale House Ministries, Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

Any internet addresses in this book are offered as a resource. They are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsement by AAE, nor does AAE vouch for the content of these sites and numbers for the life of this book.

All rights reserved. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the author.

Cover design: Interior design & composition: Ellen Janzen

For AJ, the one who is my anchor when I flail in the storms. And who holds the string for my kite when I sail high in the sky.

And for my children, who have filled my heart with love and joy and hope. Despite my many shortcomings, they love me as I love themrelentlessly.

Contents

Acknowledgements

I could not have written this without help. It came in the form of friends who read what Id written when I had no strength to edit itand said it was worth continuing. I appreciate each one who read a sliver, a slice, or the whole round pizzaand said, Keep going.

And I needed Anna. We shared this journey in silence for the longest of years. And now as weve shared the words, she gave me eyes to see things with a little less blur. Sometimes she corrected a memory, just slightly, and made it clearer. And sometimes she said, Leave that word out. And it became a better narrative. And she listened to the cassette with me and I was able to keep breathing. I could not have written this, or lived it, without her.

And God sent Val. A gift. A sweet, kind, generous soul who saw the worth, and then refined it with such care.

For those who have helped get this book into the hands of readersGail, Betty, Sharon, Sandra, Nancy, Heather, Tami, Sheri, Donny, Ama, Rose, Grace, John, Debbie, Kai, Alice, Pam, Kim, Mattie, Ginette, Melodie, Matt, Robyn, Lisa, Brenda.

Introduction

Sometimes a story that fascinates or startles us penetrates our childhood. The element of surprise creates a stronger memory, and the images of the story are imprinted within us.

The story of Pandoras Box is such a story for me. I spent my third grade in three different schools. One of those teachers told the Greek myth of Pandora and her box.

This is the story the way I remember hearing it:

The gods give Pandora a box, an urn actually, instructing her not to open it. Since we call it Pandoras Box, my image of it is a square, black box with some faded Grecian paintings under the lacquered finish.

The pressure builds inside of Pandora until she can no longer contain her curiosity, and she opens the box. Immediately a flood of evil escapes, and she quickly tries to replace the lid.

It is too late. Like a cloud of black smoke, the contents of her box have escaped. I imagine the forces of darkness swirling into the paradise she has enjoyed. Evil has invaded her world and there is nothing she can do to regain her innocence.

I am left with this image: sometimes life tumbles out of control and a dark haze swirls around us. And there is nothing we can do to solve that problem or return life to its previous bliss.

There is something I do not hear my teacher say, or have simply forgotten. Pandoras Box is not left completely empty. One thing does not escape and remains with her.

And that is hope.

Hope. For a long time, I did not see it in my box. I did not even realize it was there.

But it was.

Prologue:
To Survive is not Enough

Even if you didnt experience a devastating loss as a child, there is a good chance you know someone who did. They may not look like they suffered a trauma; they probably look completely normal, functioning in a typical way in an ordinary life. But those who look and sound and behave convincingly normal may hide a terrible hole, a black chasm in their soul, where they lost and suffered and learned to live in the silence of that tragedybecause no one knew how to join them.

Everyone has a story to tell, and this is mine.

It isnt that my suffering is more important or greater than someone elses. It certainly isnt that it has done more damage or deserves greater attention. It might be that the outlines are sharper and the memories are clearer. Inside me they are like shardsmemory shards, sharpened by the traumatic nature of the loss. It is likely that I suppressed more pain and anguish than many children. You may or may not relate.

It has now been 40 years since my moms sudden death, a few weeks before I turned twelve. Ive come through nearly fifteen years of healing, and I am almost ready to talk about it. Almost. I am aware that talking about it is part of the healing. Its likely that Im living in the middle of that clich from the songWeve only just begun!

I can write things down that I am still unable to say aloudthings I have never told anyone. The reason for that silence is not unique to me. Silence masquerades as your best friend when you experience significant loss as a child. I dont really want to talk about generalities. I am not an expert on anyone or anything except my own story. So that is what I will tell.

In order to survive the pain of my loss, I buried it. ln my silence, I created a deep hole and concealed my sorrow there.

I believed I had to do this. I was afraid the pain was killing me. It even felt physical, like I could be breathing my last breath. The only way to survive was to discipline myself to silence, both inside and out, and eventually to carry on as if the sorrow didnt exist.

This is my process, or part of it. I want to be clear on this: I have not found a short or easy journey for healing. As far as I can tell, there are no shortcuts; for me it has been fifteen years of allowing some leakage of that pain, each time gaining ground. I have allowed the emotions of loss to come to the surface in bits and pieces, not continuously. In those intervals, I have found healing. In the lulls between times of pain, I have sometimes believed the wound was mainly cured. It always surprised me when a new level of sorrow surfaced.