ABSTRACT
One of my earliest memories is of trauma transformed by the care of an emergency room physician. I was four years old and, in the era before safety restraints, was riding in the back of our station wagon along with the spare tire. So when my dad stopped too suddenly, I flew forward gashing my forehead at the eyebrow and spewing blood everywhere. Conveniently, we were on our way to the hospital to pick up my mom and new baby sister. My dad was mad at me for getting hurt and I was terrified. What I remember most is that the doctor’s voice was soft and kind, his hands were gentle and confident, and he had me “play possum” while he stitched up my head. I left calm, comforted, and even happy. This experience, only a few months after our arrival in Japan as missionaries, sustained me in the lonely years to come. This warm human connection was an island of peace in a dark sea of chaos.
