Art Bergeson

Looking over my shoulder down the corridor of time I see glimpses of my life. As I travel back as far as I can go through that corridor, the earliest pictures have been painted by someone else's brush. The first scene reveals a police cruiser in Lynn, Massachusetts on a cold, snowy night in March. Through the blowing curtains of snow a figure can be made out dimly in the path made by the headlights of the car. It is a woman, not dressed for the terrible weather that is raging outside. The policemen realize that she is a 'jumper' — one who has reached the end of her physical, financial, and emotional resources, and plans to end the last chapter of her life by jumping into the Charles River. As the officers proceed to take her into the squad car they find in her arms a child, not more than a month old.

In the midst of warmer surroundings her story comes tumbling out between sobs. Her name is Sonja, and her husband deserted her before this baby was born, taking their two older children with him. Now she has reached the end of her rope. Not knowing the language of this strange country very well, and with no welfare or services available as they are today—she wanted to end her life and the life of her child. Sadly, she got her wish as exposure to the elements took its toll; she died five months later at the age of 26. The official cause of death was consumption, but I think it was a broken heart. Sonja was my mother, and she died when I was five months old.

Though I have no recollection of it, I am told I was sent to an orphanage until I was three years old. In the state of Massachusetts one becomes a ward of the state at the age of three. Accordingly, I was placed in a foster home where I lived for many years. The "State Lady," as we called the social worker who was to take me, was unable to reach the foster home due to another blinding snowstorm. Within a half mile of the destination, she knocked on a farmer's door and asked him to take me to the Davis residence. She pinned a note on my coat which said that my name was Alfred—the name I used until I went to high school.

The farmer harnessed a team of horses to his sleigh and set out for the Davis place. The Davises were a sister and brother of Welsh descent, neither of whom had married. To help make ends meet they took children into their home, receiving a small stipend from the state for each child. This was the beginning of the depression and any income was welcome. The Davises were God-fearing people who attended church regularly, and some of my earliest memories are of getting ready to go to church.

We knew we were poor, but then most everyone was. Yet as "state kids" we perceived ourselves to be at the bottom of the totem pole. Our clothes were mended often, and we wore overalls around the farm. A Christmas present, like it or not, would be an article of much needed clothing. When we went to town, however, we always dressed up to reflect favorably upon the "family."

Being part of the Davis "family" meant shouldering our share of the responsibilities associated with running a farm. On any farm, chores are a fact of life, but like all children we hated chores. Income was earned by selling dairy products in the winter, which we delivered, and we had to keep the woodpile stocked for heat. There was a small tractor that was only operated by the adults, and usually there were a few pigs that were butchered for meat. Chickens produced eggs for sale and to eat; cows were kept for the dairy milk we sold.

I guess the Davises were good farmers. It took hard work and great skill to scratch out a living from the thin rocky soil of New England. In the summer the farm produced an abundance of vegetables which were sold at a makeshift roadside stand and to regular customers.

All of us who lived in this situation were there because for some reason our birth families had failed. What was it like, belonging to no one? We didn't discuss it much; as children we were interested in having fun, which we did, along with fulfilling our obligations to our foster family.

When I was about 12 years old I was told to get dressed up one summer day because some people were coming to visit me. I couldn't imagine who it could be. They were my father's brother Shubert his wife, Olga, and their son, Edwin, who was in his twenties. Perhaps it was at this time that I learned my name was actually Arthur, although I continued to be called Alfred until high school.

My aunt and uncle said they knew my mother and that she was a very beautiful Swedish woman. They also said my father had left her before I was born, and had taken my brother and sister with him. I had a family, even though I didn't know where they were, and I was no longer an outcast. What a thrill for me! Even though my visitors left, and didn't take me with them, my euphoria lasted for days.

In later years these family members were very kind to me. I remember one Christmas when I was notified that a new bicycle had arrived at the train depot for me. I walked three miles in a heavy freezing rain to pick it up. There were other gifts over the years, but none that I remember as vividly as that bike.

Church played a central role in our lives for as long as I can remember, and I heard all the Bible stories countless times. Our social life revolved around the church, with youth clubs, picnics, and Bible story hour.

We foster kids were poor and the thought of going away to summer camp never crossed our minds. So you can imagine our joy when an anonymous donor gave a scholarship for two of us to attend a week of summer camp in the Adirondacks of New York! We were delirious with anticipation and at the appointed day were picked up for the adventure of our lives.

Camp was all that we had dreamed it would be. Hours of play, swimming, canoeing, and crafts filled the fleeting days. Each night, after dinner, there was a service with hymns, choruses, and an evangelist who spoke to us. The presence of the Lord was so strong you could feel it. It was during one of these services that I prayed for God to take control of my life, and I felt a real presence in my heart that night. Now all that I had learned about Jesus and the Bible became personal.

My childhood ended one day when I was delivering milk as I had many times before. I was told by one of the customers that our barn was on fire. I ran home, stumbling up and down the icy hills. When I finally rounded the last turn I saw dense smoke and flames shooting into the air. George, who had been in the stable and unable to get out, died that day. His sister could not continue to care for us, so I was moved to another state home. It was very difficult to be wrenched from the only family I had known and expected to start over.

A short stay at this new home ended with a bout of pneumonia and an extended stay in the hospital. I was about 16 at the time, and with the proper medication and good food, bounced back quickly. The nurses were wonderful to me and I made some good friends there. I was informed by the state that when I left the hospital I was to go to yet another home, where I lived until I graduated from high school.

It didn't take long to discover that this farm was vastly different from the one on which I had spent the greater part of my life. Though only 30 miles away, it was worlds apart in concept. It was a commercial operation and hard work was the norm. During my last days in the Davis household I was the chief, the one in authority. Now I was at the bottom of the pecking order, getting up early in the morning to do chores, spend half a day at high school, then go back to the farm for more work. It wasn't long before my lanky frame began to fill out with solid pads of muscle.

By this time it was the war years. I felt guilty for not being in the service and six days after high school ended, I was in uniform. There was no reluctance — I was happy to go to fight for our nation in World War II. We learned the horrors of war and death. Something that always puzzled me was that there were young men there who had families and everything to live for who were killed. I, on the other hand, had no one. If I died, no one would know or care. I was ready to die, but I came through unscathed.

Several months after the war I went to visit my aunt and uncle in Lynn, Massachusetts. We had a good visit and it felt good to be with family. Aunt Olga had a surprise for me - she gave me the last known address of my father in Bristol, Connecticut. I decided to go to Connecticut to meet my family. The flood of emotions as I arrived at their home was amazing. My sister, Thelma, was blond, obviously Swedish, and pretty. She said that the minute she saw me she knew I was her brother. Later when our brother, Oscar, came home from work, he just sat down, stunned. It was like looking into a mirror for both of us.

Knowing my story, the memories my brother and sister had about my dad were far different from what one might imagine.

Thelma shares her recollections: Dad was a very hard worker—a baker all of his life. He owned a bakery, worked 14 hours a day or more, and brought me flowers on my birthday.

For a time, during some of the difficulties of The Great Depression, when he lost his bakery and struggled to find work, Oscar and I went to live in a Christian children's home. I was about ten years old. They were very good to us and it was there that both Oz and I received Christ as our Savior.

We moved to Bristol, Connecticut during the war. Dad got a job with a Jewish bakery and I went to high school. I graduated and shortly after got a job. After I began working Dad became ill and was diagnosed with inoperable lung cancer. We went to a church, and Dad would attend when able. He would often make Swedish coffee cakes when we had a luncheon even if he could not be there. Several men came from church to talk to him about the Lord and it was during this time that he made a profession of faith.

During the time he was ill, we drove up to Massachusetts where our mother is buried. It was then that he told us about Mother's death, and that there was another child whose name was Arthur. Dad always sent baked goods up for the children when we were at the home. He seemed to have a real love for children, so I don't know how he could have left Art.

Oscar's view: Dad was a decent, loving man, with infinite patience. He wrote poetry and was very good to us. He was innocent, almost childlike, in his outlook on the world. When he lost the bakery during the Great Depression it was a very rough time for him, but even before that, he was almost constantly on the move trying to find a secure job. He finally got a job in Bristol only to have lung cancer strike.

He was constantly being hurt by his failed expectations, including his marriages. I can imagine that in his younger days life was better for him. It seems after the children were born, everything piled up and it was a matter of heartache and survival. His children have fared ever so much better. Life has been good to us, and best of all, we have each other.

Thelma continues: Dad was 20 years older than mother and evidently quite jealous. He believed that Art was not his child, and because of Dad's irrational treatment lo our mother, his brother Shubert tried to have him committed to an asylum. They thought he had gone crazy. That is why Dad had nothing to do with his brother all those years. Shubert and his family were warned, with the threat of physical violence, not to help Mother in any way. Dad wasn't a Christian when he was married to Mother, who was his third wife. How could he trust her when he hadn't been a trustworthy husband to two other women?

But after losing two businesses and struggling through the depression, he was a changed man. God never gives up on us does he? Dad said his mother was a believer and she prayed for him many years. God finally answered her prayers. I have to believe that in God's goodness He shielded Art from the hurt Dad might have caused him emotionally, believing as he did the unfounded notion that Art was not his son. I also believe that when we are reunited in heaven it will he with a father who dearly loves Art, as well as a heavenly Father who loves us all.

God is still a God of miracles. He snatched a baby from certain death, placed him with people who cared for him, led him in around the world, through a war and back, and reunited him with his brother and sister. Along the way all of them, including their father, became believers. It sounds like fiction, too amazing to be true. But I can tell you it happened. My brother still lives in Connecticut and my sister is a retired missionary to Ethiopia now living in Florida.

I now have a marvelous wife, four grown children, and ten grandchildren. God loves us so much, and He has been extremely gracious to me. Psalm 139 says, Lord, you know me. You know when I sit and when I rise… you discern my going out and my lying down; you are familiar with all my ways... the number of my days were written before one of them came to be. Praise my wonderful Lord!

Art Bergeson
Core Leader
McLean Eve, VA CBS