Remembering Uncle Sonny (Part 2 of 2)

There were children playing on the Johnson property everywhere. In the barn, a giant ship-mooring rope hung from a centre beam, with an enormous knot at its end, large enough to hold several children.

“Hey, jump on!” prodded one of the bigger kids.

“Are you sure it's OK?” I asked.

“Oh yeah, we do this all the time.”

There were four of us, and we climbed aboard, adding to an already overcrowded knot. We began swinging the knot back and forth like a giant pendulum. Soon after, little Carol became frightened and asked to get down. Some of the older children dismissed her fear, saying, “Relax kid, it'll be fine!”

“She’s family,” I remember thinking. “She’s smaller than us. She can’t make them stop by herself.” I looked at Martin and Joe and could see they agreed, so we insisted she be allowed off.

“OK, OK, we don't want her here anyway,” they chided, slowing down the rope to a stop. “Now don't be a baby and tell anybody you were afraid.”

We helped her down, gently. “Are you alright, Carol?” I asked. As she left, she said quietly, “Don't worry about it, I'm OK, I won't say anything.” After she left, I could see Uncle Sonny walking with her to the house through the open barn door.

Later, when the rope was swinging wildly across the barn, Uncle Johnson appeared and angrily ordered everyone off. Uncle Sonny soon appeared in the doorway.

“It’s okay, John,” he said. “There aren't any real small kids now; I'll watch them.”

“Still, I've told these older ones not to use the swing unless they check with us first.” He turned back to us, saying, “No more this weekend, and we'll talk to you later.” He directed his comment to the louder boy.

“Besides, it's time to eat anyway, so get to the house, everybody.” Uncle Johnson barked with a wink.

We left quickly, others trailing timidly after.

After a wonderful afternoon family meal, we went outside to play Frisbee. I ran after a long throw, and my foot found a hole in the field, and I went down hard. Uncle Sonny had seen it happen. He came over and helped me, and soon my parents and much of the family gathered around.

I had always been somewhat uncertain of my place in the family because I had been adopted. Yet in that moment, there was no question whatsoever: I was loved.

My Dad treated my injured ankle, wrapping it carefully after alternating between an ice compress and warm water to control the swelling. Uncle Sonny watched with an experienced smile.

After the pain had subsided and I was sufficiently bandaged, I asked if I could stay and sit with him; my Dad hesitated.

“Maybe Uncle Sonny wants some peace and quiet,” he said with continued concern.

“Oh no, Jim,” Sonny replied. “Us old guys need to sit together and talk over our war wounds. We’ll be fine.”

So we sat together beneath the tree.

For a few minutes, neither of us spoke.

Then Sonny said, “Do you remember when I told you I’d explain my hand sometime, when the time was right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, it’s the right time.”

I listened.

“Today, when you, Martin, and the other boy protected Carol when she was scared, that was a good thing. Those other boys were bigger than you. You could have gotten yourself into trouble.”

“She was smaller than everybody and couldn’t make them stop,” I answered. “We had to do something. Besides, she’s our family.”

Sonny pointed gently toward me.

“Many people don’t feel that way. They don’t care enough to help the weak. But that’s a good heart I see.”

Then he told me about the war.

“When I was fighting, I had to protect people who were weaker than the enemy. There was a man who was very brave, but smaller than most of the others in our company. One day I asked him why he fought so hard.”

Sonny smiled as he remembered the answer.

“He said, ‘Us little guys need to protect others too. Who better to fight for the little guys?’”

Then came the story behind his hand.

“In one battle, we were going under the wire when he got caught. The enemy was coming fast, and he couldn’t get loose. The wire had wrapped around his leg and dug into it. He called for help, so I went back.”

Sonny’s voice remained calm.

“I pulled with all I had, and prayed, asking God for strength, but the wire was thick. Still, he finally got free, but the strain cut completely through my index finger and badly damaged my middle finger. They could only save half of it.”

“I’m so sorry, Uncle Sonny.”

“Don’t be,” he said. “I’m actually grateful.”

He explained, the man survived, recovered well, and went on to help many others.

“So I had a part in that,” Sonny said. “I learned something very strong that day. To give up part of yourself to save someone else is always better. The life you save—and the people who love them—may be spared all kinds of pain. One good action done for another keeps going through the life it helps.”

I sat quietly, trying to understand the weight of what he had given me.

Uncle Sonny had carried that story for decades. He had hidden it behind jokes about squirrels and fingernails, not because he was ashamed, but because he understood, children should not be burdened with every sorrow, simply because they are curious.

He waited until the moment was right.

Looking back, I think that was one of his greatest gifts. He knew pain should not be ignored or swept under the rug, but neither should it be allowed to become the centre of a person's life. He could acknowledge suffering without surrendering to it. He could remember loss while remaining grateful for life.

He taught us, family means more than blood. It means protecting one another, making room for the vulnerable, and sometimes giving something of ourselves so someone else can continue forward.

Uncle Sonny had lost part of his hand saving another man's life.

That action shared gave me something too.

It gave me a way of understanding what it means to answer a life with the gift of life. Hmm... sounds familiar.

Thank you, Uncle Sonny.

Seasons come and go in life, as God presents moments to grow in.

Happy Seasoning.