Candace becomes a story....
As we were lingering at the dinner table, Odia's friend came calling and just as they were leaving to spend the evening together, her friend said something about the Candace jokes that were circulating in the school.
“Candace jokes?” I asked. Both girls shot out of the house.
But I wouldn’t let it rest…. When Odia came home later that evening, I asked about it and she admitted that there were Candace jokes floating about the school.
"How many jokes are there?"
"Two."
"Are they about our Candace?"
She looked away.
"Would they hurt Candace?"
She continued to look at the wall.
"Would they hurt us?"
She nodded.
"Do they hurt you?"
"Yes."
By her guarded response, I knew that this was too big a burden for a little girl, she needed to share….
"Does the joke make fun of Candace?"
She nodded.
"Odia, tell us, please, we can take it.”
She took a deep breath. "What did the Derksens get for Christmas?’"
I waited.
She paused. "Candy in a box."
I felt the edge of a cold steel blade slit my heart— not so much for myself but for the young face in front of us putting on such a brave fight for control. She told us the other joke, and it was much the same. She looked shredded.
I glanced at Cliff for a response, but I could tell he was groping for words too.
"Odia,” I said softly. “There are always going to be people around us who will try to make light of something that is uncomfortable. It hurts…. “
She lowered her eyes and nodded.
Cliff's eyes were saying, "Wilma, be careful. Don't push her over the edge."
I continued, "Candace was hurt, and we are being hurt, too. We just have to remember to be kind to everyone, sometimes they don’t know what they are doing."
She nodded.
I wanted to give her something more, but it wasn't easy trying to turn this one around.
Suddenly I had an idea. "You know that people make those kinds of jokes about people in the news, about important people like Brian Mulroney, Trudeau, Elizabeth Taylor, and Reagan. Maybe Candace is famous now. Maybe we can expect this kind of thing now. Let's think of Candace as a star."
She smiled… we all smiled. Candace would have liked to be a star…
.
I couldn’t help but remember…another unsettling conversation …
.
It was the the seven-week search for Candace, when our home had already become a kind of headquarters, with people constantly coming and going. One woman, seeing how overwhelmed I was—trying to host visitors while caring for our two-year-old—had volunteered to stay behind and help.
She truly was a Godsend. Yet I noticed that she was watching me carefully throughout day, especially when the media came and went. When the last two reporters finally left and I closed the door behind them, I turned around and found her standing in the middle of the living room, her eyes wide.
“Who are you?” she asked.
I thought the answer was obvious. She was standing in my house, we had spent the day together, but I patiently explained that I was Cliff’s wife, Candace’s mother.
“No,” she said. “I know that.” She narrowed her eyes slightly. “But who are you—really? There is something different about the way you deal with the media.”
Then I understood what she was sensing. I told her I had recently completed a two-year program in Creative Communications at Red River Community College—a kind of boot camp for journalists—which might explain why I appeared so open and composed with the reporters who came and went.
Her eyes widened. “You’re a writer,” she gasped. “That’s why this is happening.”
“What?” I asked. I couldn’t see the connection.
“You’re going to write a book about all of this someday. That’s what God wants from this.” She seemed delighted by her own insight. “You’re going to write a book.”
I was horrified.
Her implication was that God had orchestrated Candace’s disappearance, so I might one day write a book. She was suggesting that my longing to be a writer was somehow complicit in Candace’s abduction. The thought was repulsive. Damning.
I fled into the kitchen and began making more coffee, needing distance—anything to escape the moment.
Inside, I was seething. I turned immediately toward God. If that is your plan, I said silently, there will be no book for you. I will never write about this.
Even though I wasn't going to write a book, I found myself telling her story. It was a way of staying connected to those who had developed an ongoing interest in hearing her story – and to thank them over and over again for what they had done for us and were continuing to do….
I continued to say yes—to interviews, to church gatherings, to classrooms, to community events.
Then after one presentation, one young man waited quietly until the others had stepped awa and introduced himself as an agent from Tyndale House Publishers.
He asked if I had ever considered writing the story down.
I don’t think I answer definitively because not long after, I was invited to submit a proposal to the publisher.
It is one thing to speak about forgiveness in a press conference. It is another to sit alone at your desk and write about the darkest hours of your child’s life. If I was going to put this story into print, I had to wrestle honestly. I had to examine what I believed about suffering, about evil, about God’s presence in places where no parent ever wants to imagine their child.
Before I could write the book, I had to do some theological acrobatics—not to protect God, but to understand Him.
Then I remembered, how Candace had entrusted her life to God; perhaps now I had to do the same, entrust her murder to Him as well —allowing Candace’s life to have whatever impact it might have – trusting that it would be a good one.
So I started – writing – and it wasn’t easy. I was working full time, and I had to write at end of day.
Cliff wondered about me. HE said that I went into the study tired but content only to emerge an hour later – red-eyed and exhausted.
I wrote the book –. Sure, it was difficult to forgive the murderer. I was difficult to forgive the police for not looking for her that first night and finding her. But in the end, the hardest thing I had to forgive was myself for not picking her up. I laid it all out….
It took a year to write – and another year to have it published.
It came out in 1991 as the book, “Have you seen Candace?”
Even though the book was based on our experience - it was really all about Candace.
*****
We like to think of ourselves as logical creatures — people who follow evidence, facts, and data. But the truth is, we don’t. We live in stories. We are stories. No other being on earth can create a story—it's truly what makes humans unique.
“All that we are is story. From the moment we are born to the time we continue on our spirit journey, we are involved in the creation of the story of our time here. It is what we arrive with. It is all we leave behind. We are not the things we accumulate. We are not the things we deem important. We are story. All of us.…” ― Richard Wagamese
*****
Even though Candace was no longer alive, she still had a role to play—not only in our lives, but in the lives of many others whose lives were touched by murder and what I came to identify as the Victim offender trauma bond.
At first, we didn’t realize her invisible influence – but slowly, it came out.in the most remarkable ways,
It began the moment someone identified her as the perfect victim. She hadn’t lived long enough to make any serious mistakes – yet she had lived long enough to know that she was – someone gifted with the art of connection and love. Candace was innocent : she did not deserve to die.
“Candace jokes?” I asked. Both girls shot out of the house.
But I wouldn’t let it rest…. When Odia came home later that evening, I asked about it and she admitted that there were Candace jokes floating about the school.
"How many jokes are there?"
"Two."
"Are they about our Candace?"
She looked away.
"Would they hurt Candace?"
She continued to look at the wall.
"Would they hurt us?"
She nodded.
"Do they hurt you?"
"Yes."
By her guarded response, I knew that this was too big a burden for a little girl, she needed to share….
"Does the joke make fun of Candace?"
She nodded.
"Odia, tell us, please, we can take it.”
She took a deep breath. "What did the Derksens get for Christmas?’"
I waited.
She paused. "Candy in a box."
I felt the edge of a cold steel blade slit my heart— not so much for myself but for the young face in front of us putting on such a brave fight for control. She told us the other joke, and it was much the same. She looked shredded.
I glanced at Cliff for a response, but I could tell he was groping for words too.
"Odia,” I said softly. “There are always going to be people around us who will try to make light of something that is uncomfortable. It hurts…. “
She lowered her eyes and nodded.
Cliff's eyes were saying, "Wilma, be careful. Don't push her over the edge."
I continued, "Candace was hurt, and we are being hurt, too. We just have to remember to be kind to everyone, sometimes they don’t know what they are doing."
She nodded.
I wanted to give her something more, but it wasn't easy trying to turn this one around.
Suddenly I had an idea. "You know that people make those kinds of jokes about people in the news, about important people like Brian Mulroney, Trudeau, Elizabeth Taylor, and Reagan. Maybe Candace is famous now. Maybe we can expect this kind of thing now. Let's think of Candace as a star."
She smiled… we all smiled. Candace would have liked to be a star…
.
I couldn’t help but remember…another unsettling conversation …
.
It was the the seven-week search for Candace, when our home had already become a kind of headquarters, with people constantly coming and going. One woman, seeing how overwhelmed I was—trying to host visitors while caring for our two-year-old—had volunteered to stay behind and help.
She truly was a Godsend. Yet I noticed that she was watching me carefully throughout day, especially when the media came and went. When the last two reporters finally left and I closed the door behind them, I turned around and found her standing in the middle of the living room, her eyes wide.
“Who are you?” she asked.
I thought the answer was obvious. She was standing in my house, we had spent the day together, but I patiently explained that I was Cliff’s wife, Candace’s mother.
“No,” she said. “I know that.” She narrowed her eyes slightly. “But who are you—really? There is something different about the way you deal with the media.”
Then I understood what she was sensing. I told her I had recently completed a two-year program in Creative Communications at Red River Community College—a kind of boot camp for journalists—which might explain why I appeared so open and composed with the reporters who came and went.
Her eyes widened. “You’re a writer,” she gasped. “That’s why this is happening.”
“What?” I asked. I couldn’t see the connection.
“You’re going to write a book about all of this someday. That’s what God wants from this.” She seemed delighted by her own insight. “You’re going to write a book.”
I was horrified.
Her implication was that God had orchestrated Candace’s disappearance, so I might one day write a book. She was suggesting that my longing to be a writer was somehow complicit in Candace’s abduction. The thought was repulsive. Damning.
I fled into the kitchen and began making more coffee, needing distance—anything to escape the moment.
Inside, I was seething. I turned immediately toward God. If that is your plan, I said silently, there will be no book for you. I will never write about this.
Even though I wasn't going to write a book, I found myself telling her story. It was a way of staying connected to those who had developed an ongoing interest in hearing her story – and to thank them over and over again for what they had done for us and were continuing to do….
I continued to say yes—to interviews, to church gatherings, to classrooms, to community events.
Then after one presentation, one young man waited quietly until the others had stepped awa and introduced himself as an agent from Tyndale House Publishers.
He asked if I had ever considered writing the story down.
I don’t think I answer definitively because not long after, I was invited to submit a proposal to the publisher.
It is one thing to speak about forgiveness in a press conference. It is another to sit alone at your desk and write about the darkest hours of your child’s life. If I was going to put this story into print, I had to wrestle honestly. I had to examine what I believed about suffering, about evil, about God’s presence in places where no parent ever wants to imagine their child.
Before I could write the book, I had to do some theological acrobatics—not to protect God, but to understand Him.
Then I remembered, how Candace had entrusted her life to God; perhaps now I had to do the same, entrust her murder to Him as well —allowing Candace’s life to have whatever impact it might have – trusting that it would be a good one.
So I started – writing – and it wasn’t easy. I was working full time, and I had to write at end of day.
Cliff wondered about me. HE said that I went into the study tired but content only to emerge an hour later – red-eyed and exhausted.
I wrote the book –. Sure, it was difficult to forgive the murderer. I was difficult to forgive the police for not looking for her that first night and finding her. But in the end, the hardest thing I had to forgive was myself for not picking her up. I laid it all out….
It took a year to write – and another year to have it published.
It came out in 1991 as the book, “Have you seen Candace?”
Even though the book was based on our experience - it was really all about Candace.
*****
We like to think of ourselves as logical creatures — people who follow evidence, facts, and data. But the truth is, we don’t. We live in stories. We are stories. No other being on earth can create a story—it's truly what makes humans unique.
“All that we are is story. From the moment we are born to the time we continue on our spirit journey, we are involved in the creation of the story of our time here. It is what we arrive with. It is all we leave behind. We are not the things we accumulate. We are not the things we deem important. We are story. All of us.…” ― Richard Wagamese
*****
Even though Candace was no longer alive, she still had a role to play—not only in our lives, but in the lives of many others whose lives were touched by murder and what I came to identify as the Victim offender trauma bond.
At first, we didn’t realize her invisible influence – but slowly, it came out.in the most remarkable ways,
It began the moment someone identified her as the perfect victim. She hadn’t lived long enough to make any serious mistakes – yet she had lived long enough to know that she was – someone gifted with the art of connection and love. Candace was innocent : she did not deserve to die.
RSS Feed
