Refuge by Rodney Underwood

I have found that people will never cease to amaze you... If you let them.

Why I decided to write my story...

Some years back, friends of ours invited us to the christening of their baby.  It was an outdoor wedding venue with a chapel and a functions hall.  After the ceremony we were having a few snacks and chatting outside. My kids came up to me and asked, "Dad how much longer are we still going to be here? Because we're bored."  "Still about another two hours” I replied, “so you'd better find something to do.  Tell you what, go and count how many people are here and come back and tell me." Thinking that this was just an activity to pass the time, they went off to count the people.  A little while later, they came back and reported that there were 35 people at the function.  I responded, "Okay.  That means there are at least 35 stories out there.  Go and find at least one."
Two hours later, I struggled to get them into the car to go home.  "Dad! You won't believe the stories we've found! That man has been to amazing places, and that woman is doing incredible things!" Even months later, they would sometimes come to me after a day at school, excited about someone's story that they had discovered.
Everyone has a story...

In April 2018, my friend John-Mark Theunissen passed away with a heart attack.  One afternoon, about two weeks earlier, I had been walking with his son Daniel.  On a whim, I asked him, "Daniel, did your Dad ever tell you about when we were in Rwanda, when we helped an orphanage during the war there, worked with refugees and climbed a volcano?"  “No,” He said, "my Dad never did." I was indignant! I stormed off to confront John-Mark, "Daniel tells me that you have never told him about Rwanda.  Tell him...  you need to tell him!" Those were my last words to John-Mark.  I have since asked Daniel if his Dad eventually did tell him about Rwanda.  Daniel answered, "Yes, he did." I then wondered, how many other stories of his adventures (of which there were many) went to the grave with him.  It was at that point that I decided that I needed to record my stories in writing, even if only for my children to read one day.  As a result of this decision, I found that many suppressed memories started to come back and writing them down turned out to be surprisingly therapeutic.  I have found, however, that many of these memories are still too deeply suppressed and I may never be able to tell them at all.  Some I do remember, but I struggle to put these into words.