LITMIR.BIZ

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arrived in Winnipeg in August. Because we had thought we would be immigrating sooner than we did, I hadn’t gone to the junior high school class in Paraguay that started in February. This meant that not only was I a year older than some of the others in my grade to begin with, but now I had missed half a year of grade 7. We were forced to make a decision—should I go into grade 7, at nearly 14 years old? Or should we bump me up to grade 8, where there were people a little closer to my age?

      Given that junior high school is not the easiest place to be, any teenager with a few strikes against him is likely to get bullied or victimized. With not knowing the language, with my blond hair and freckles, with not knowing a single person going to the junior high school, I already had a few strikes against me. Dropping into a grade 7 class while almost two years older than everyone else would be the tipping point, so I wasn’t eager to jump into that atmosphere. Besides, I’d always had an aptitude for math and had never struggled through school.

      Though it took some convincing, the school administration finally agreed to let a German-speaking kid from Paraguay into grade 8 with not a single word of English. They did assign a few helpers to move me along, but it was like jumping in front of a soccer net blindfolded.

      Having borrowed my neighbour’s banana-seat bike, I spent the days ripping up and down the back lane that started at the side of our house. The surface was gravel and full of potholes, but it was like a smooth stretch of asphalt compared to what I was used to. Now 13 and able to ride a bike properly, I practiced my acceleration, turns, skids and pothole-dodging skills.

      * * *

      The crunch of gravel was always the first thing that alerted me to a car coming down the back lane. Pedalling quickly, I would turn to look over my shoulder and verify that I’d heard correctly and they weren’t pulling off into a garage or parking pad. Once I knew that they were coming my way, I’d pull over to the side and let them pass. Sometimes the tires would kick up rocks that hit my calves and shins, but I did my best to establish eye contact with everyone who passed so I knew they saw me.

      With the sun high in the sky that day, I heard the crunch and turned to look. A car was ambling down the back lane, bouncing through the potholes without avoiding them. I slowed down, my foot skidding along the gravel to help brake. As I pulled off to the right onto the thin line of grass and stopped before a garbage bin, I checked behind me again. The car was getting closer, and I recognized the driver. She was young, and her eyes were wide, popping with every bounce. In the passenger seat sat her dad, perhaps less terrified than the she was.

      I turned to look forward again as they were about to pass me. But something was wrong about the sound.

      It wasn’t going around me—it was coming right at me.

      At the last second she had panicked and turned right instead of left—right into me. There was no time for reacting; there was no time for moving. I felt the crunch of the car as it hit my back tire, knocking me over in a tangle of arms and legs. The metal of the bumper passed before my eyes, and then I closed them, horrified of what was happening.

      With the dust swirling around my face and the final kick of the car as the brakes stopped it from going any farther, I heard the crunch of the gravel as everything settled. Echoing back off the metal underside of the car came my own breathing, fast and terrified.

      I opened my eyes to look up and—

      No, that couldn’t be.

      It isn’t right.

      My left leg was between the engine block and the front axle, my bike piled on top of me. My breathing wasn’t getting any slower, only faster.

      That’s not right, I thought.

      A leg is supposed to bend, but only at the knee.

      It looked like I had a new joint in my leg.

      The bone in my shin was sticking out at a 90-degree angle, my leg dangling limply in front of me. For how fast my reaction time usually was, it took a little longer for the pain to hit my brain. But when it did—

      If starting school in a week as an immigrant wasn’t bad enough, starting school as an immigrant with no friends and a broken leg was like jumping in front of a soccer net blindfolded with my hands and feet tied.

      * * *

      Hospital beds are not all that comfortable, especially when your pastor is walking into the room. Still relatively young, I wasn’t accustomed to any type of pastoral visit. Reverend William Neufeld settled himself into the chair beside my bed with a stiff collar and a well-worn (yet somehow still new-looking) Bible clasped between his hands. He cleared his throat, and I waited for him to speak. No way was I going to interrupt my pastor. My parents had left the room, so we were the only ones in it, and I suddenly became very seriously interested in the lines and folds in the sheets on the hospital bed.

      “Arvid.” His voice was dry, but I didn’t think I’d be able to speak enough words to offer him water.

      I smiled—more like grimaced—not knowing what to say. “How are you feeling?”

      I looked down at my leg—the vehicle that I relied upon to bike, play soccer and move around. It was a horrible thing to lose the use of, but, all things considered, it was a small price to pay for the accident I had experienced.

      “Okay,” I answered.

      “Good, good,” he said, the tension seeming to lift as he leaned back in the chair and put the Bible on the counter beside him. But his hand didn’t leave its cover, and I waited for what I knew was going to come. My parents had always had a deep-rooted faith, but I’d never been one to follow in anyone’s footsteps.

      “Does it still hurt?” There was compassion in his voice and his eyes, and I felt the pressure beating in my chest release.

      “Some,” I said, perhaps acting a little more brave than I felt. “But they’re giving me medicine to take the pain away.” My mouth felt dry, and I reached over to the other side of the bed to lift the jug of water with the straw that every hospital bed has.

      “Good, good,” he repeated. I wondered where this was going—no, I knew where it was going. But I wondered when it would get there.

      “That was a bad accident,” Reverend Neufeld said.

      “Yes,” I responded. “It was.”

      “You were very fortunate to end up here—with only a broken leg,” he added. “Things could have been much worse.” I nodded. This seemed to give him fuel to continue on. “Arvid.” He pulled the Bible back between his hands, his fingers finding their home in the leather. “If the accident had been worse—if you had been killed—would you have been ready to meet Jesus?” The words were so heavy I could hardly believe that he was able to look me in the face as he asked them, but his gaze never left my face, while mine wandered around the room.

      “I,” I began, not knowing how to finish. “I’ve always gone to church,” I argued, like everyone cornered will argue. I was about to continue on and list a resume’s worth of good actions from my past, but he cut me short.

      “Arvid.” He continued to look directly at me—or was it into me?—with a gaze that forced me to look away. “I want you to think about that question. When you’re ready, come talk to me. But don’t take too long. Before your next bike ride might be a good idea.” There was a hint of a joke there, and we both smirked but didn’t laugh.

      I nodded at him like I understood the question. He began to pray then, his words flowing like water down a hill. I could hardly keep up with what he was saying, but ten seconds in, my mind was already lost. If the accident had been worse—if you had been killed—would you have been ready to meet Jesus?

      When I got home, I asked Mom the same question. But she turned it back on me.

      “Would you have been ready?” I was leaning against my crutches, and I took them out from under my armpits to lean them against the wall. Standing on one foot I hopped into the kitchen as she entered ahead of me. Like with Reverend

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