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I found the two children standing in front of the house, stunned and silent. Their mother had died shortly before. The cause was still uncertain. Paramedics moved in and out of the house while family members—arriving from all directions—gathered in small, distressed clusters. Some were crying hysterically. Others seemed unable to speak.
I introduced myself and explained that I was part of the trauma support team. A neighbour kindly offered his home as a quieter space, and I took the children there.
The boy, in Grade 5, could barely breathe. I helped him to slow his breathing, guiding him until his body began to settle. His sister, in Grade 9, was still wearing her school uniform. I helped her loosen her tie and gave them both cool cloths to wipe their faces.
I asked softly if they wanted to tell me what had happened. They stared ahead, frozen. Every so often, family members would come in. Each time, the girl would break down in piercing sobs. The well-meaning response was always the same: “No, no, you must be strong now.”
I clenched my teeth, resisting the urge to intervene too quickly.
At one point, the girl asked if she could see her mother. The paramedics were still busy, and we were not yet allowed inside. I noticed her standing at the window, looking toward the house, and I reflected that I could see she wanted to be with her mother.
Then, she began to speak. Just before everything happened, she had sent her mother a WhatsApp message reminding her about an after-school activity.
When the body was finally removed and we were allowed back into the house, the girl’s grief erupted again. As family members tried once more to silence her, I gently asked them to let her cry. She needed the release. She needed permission to grieve.
Meanwhile, the boy had slipped away into another room—presumably his mother’s bedroom. I followed and sat beside him on the bed. I had a small key holder in my hand depicting the armour of God. He stared at it for a long time, and that simple object became the doorway to conversation.
The tears streamed as he spoke of his fears and insecurities. His mother had been his whole world. His father had passed away a year or two earlier. Now he wondered: Where will I live? Do I still have to go to school? Who will take care of me?
After some more reflection, I reassured him that I had given my contact details to his aunt and that I would come and visit if he needed me. He was not alone—even if everything felt like it in that moment.
Speaking is one of Petra Institute’s mentor associates. Veronica completed the Institute’s course, Walking with Wounded Children—often described as “first aid for trauma”—in 2013 and qualified as a facilitator in 2016.
She describes herself as someone who prefers clear steps: step one, step two, step three. But real-life trauma does not follow a neat sequence.
“It is in those moments,” she reflects, “when you receive calm and guidance from the Spirit, that you become deeply aware of His presence.”
Veronica has since presented the five-day introductory Walking with Wounded Children course for Frontline Ministries and completed their Trauma Support Mediator training. Through this equipping, she was able to offer a calm and compassionate presence on a day when the ground disappeared beneath two children’s feet.
A Question to Reflect On
How would you respond if faced with a similar moment?
Would you be able to create a space of safety and empathy in the middle of chaos?
The Walking with Wounded Children course will again be presented in person from 26 April to 8 May 2026 in De Doorns, Western Cape.
