New Website

Hello Readers!

Thank you for being so faithful to following my creative non-fiction. This April will mark three years since I started this blog, and I cannot be any more grateful. Please follow me on my new website:
https://kimberly-patton.blogspot.com/

There I will be continuing to bring you charming, introspective, memoir-esque essays about this challenging and beautiful life we lead. 

Also, I have published an Amazon E-book. It is available for sale at
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B078RCM9MH

I look forward to catching up with you soon! 
-Kimberly Patton 

Twitter: @kimpatton730
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/user/show/59962088-kimberly-patton
YouTube Channel: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SJhAwiQ8pKo&t=12s
Instagram: kimpatton730

The Spirit of Christmas

During my first semester of college, I felt as if something was pulling at every corner of my brain. My classes probed me endlessly, introducing new ideas and thoughts that left me speechless.

My faith was jostled and I was left wanting sure footing. I had so many questions. With every new piece of information floating in, I begged to know the reasons behind what I believed. For the first time, I struggled aggressively, combating doubt toward God and Christianity. I jotted down dozens of spiritual questions that burned in me and kept them on a turquoise cardstock. Then I brought this list to trusted friends for their direction. They answered my questions vaguely, often with a smile tugging at their lips. They knew my questions were common among doubters even though the list felt fresh and new to me.

It was Christmas break and I was back home for a few weeks. I found myself wrestling with God. I fought His will, I rebelled inwardly, tossing and turning between faith and doubt. I spent my days waitressing and my nights journaling in my room, notebooks spread on my handmade pink quilt and lamp light bouncing off my fingertips as I wrote. I felt like I had lived my whole life with God and I didn’t really know what it felt like to be without Him. So I made a quiet pact with myself, daring to step away from my faith in one small way. On December 19^th, I started an experiment.

I stopped praying.

Because I became a Christian before I even started kindergarten, my faith had always included praying. Every day. Mom and Dad kneeling by my bed at night. Dad thanking God for our food at the dinner table. My whispered requests to calm my fears in the middle of a wicked thunderstorm.

But I was 18. Independent. And bold enough to test God. To test myself, really. It was a week before Christmas and I had stubbornly stopped talking to God. Whenever I felt the impulse to pray, to thank God or ask for help, I just stopped. I turned on the radio or left the room to get my mind off it. I was determined to “live without God.” But only for a few days, just to see what it would be like.

When I was nearing the final days of my obstinacy and started to miss the sacred relationship that I had to put on the shelf… Christmas Eve came.

I bundled up in my winter coat, donned a festive scarf and straightened my hair with a flat iron. My family and I traveled to my brother’s church where he served as a youth pastor in Rockford, Michigan. The air was crisp and white crispy snow was piled up to the edges of the sidewalk. Dad dropped us off at the front door. We shuffled in, stamping our feet, removing our mittens and relishing the heat pumping through the small, dark, building.

The Christmas lights twinkled inside the auditorium as we slowly meandered in. We were given wax candles with circle paper shields in the middle to hold onto during the service. I held my candle tightly just like I held my secret deep inside. Nobody knew the turmoil my young heart was dealing with. I was stoic. Every evening I journaled about my experience and each day I got closer to relinquishing. But even though it was Christmas Eve and my heart teetered on the brink, I just wasn’t ready yet. I couldn’t give in until I was absolutely sure I would never have to do this again. As we settled in, the service lingered on with its usual Christmasy charm but I was still guarded, pretending to be impenetrable.

Little did I know.

The piano softly played and the last part of the evening commenced, perhaps the most beautiful. The passing of the flame and the corporate song, “Silent Night”.

I sat at the edge of the row, the one closest to the aisle. A young girl approached to my right, holding a flaming candle carefully in her hands. Her blonde hair was pulled back and her eyes glimmered. She slowly lit my vertical candle and we watched the wicks kiss and then spark brightly. As I pulled it back, our eyes met. She whispered a soft, delicate, “Merry Christmas” and then smiled like an angel. Her sweetness melted me and I froze, barely able to turn to my brother to light his candle. We listened to the hymn as tears met at the corners of my eyes, staying there for a moment before quietly soaking back in my lids.

I felt like I was on the outside of something beautiful looking in until this girl, not much younger than me, invited me in with her essence. She had reached into the deep of my soul, my fearful and doubt-filled faith that I had hidden from everyone. She was telling me that there is no discrimination. There is no exclusion. All are welcome.

This is the spirit of Christmas.

A Swirling Mystery

Skydiving. Surfing. Bungee jumping. Scuba diving. Cliff diving. 

Running of the Bulls. White water rafting.

       I would never classify myself as a thrill-seeker who is willing to try anything. In fact, if I signed up for the events listed above, there would be a pretty good chance that I would chicken out before my time to shine arrived. However, I have an adventurous soul and am often tempted to wander off the beaten path to embrace a little danger.

Tuesday September 5^th

       I first heard about Hurricane Irma as I listened to worried customers mentioning the trending news to my co-worker. “It’s tracking to hit us over the weekend and they are saying it could pack a heavy punch.” I huddled in my small office, looking up news reports and seeing the white clouds hovering over the ocean. I closed out of the screen, passing off Irma like the other hurricanes last year that threatened our area. Schools shut down but all I experienced was a drizzly day. Two years in Florida and I had yet to be impressed by the storms. Of course I value my safety and ease of life, but a part of me looked to enjoy the new experience in Irma. As the days went by and the seriousness of the situation mounted, I have to admit that I was pretty excited.

http://www.azcentral.com/story/news/nation/2017/09/09/despite-warnings-some-riding-out-hurricane-irma-home/650261001/

Thursday, September 7^th

       Central Florida news crews were delivering hefty warnings of the coming storm. Stores were ransacked of their bottled water, bread, plywood, batteries, propane, flashlights and canned goods. You couldn’t be out in public more than five minutes before hearing Floridians chattering about Irma and their prediction of its track.

“Oh, it’s just going to smear the coast, giving us only light rain and wind.”

“Clermont is hilly, so we are protected unlike the rest of the very flat state.”

“Even if we do get wind and rain, we probably won’t even lose power.”

       And then there were others who were too concerned to stay and find out where Irma was headed. They piled sandbags around their house and high-tailed it out of the state, clogging the freeways with bumper to bumper traffic. By Friday afternoon, businesses were shutting down and the roads were lined with cars like ants on a mission to their destination. My job at the bank consisted of processing withdrawals until we literally ran out of cash and closed early. Kevin and I talked about our options, deciding to hunker down and ride out the storm at home. The problem was, this was my first hurricane and I had no idea what to expect. 

Saturday, September 9th

       At 10am I ran my usual route around the neighborhood, soaking in the sights of a pre-hurricane existence. I heard generators being warmed up and watched neighbors nail plywood to their windows. I saw the beautiful palm trees sway in the breeze and wondered how each branch would be affected in the coming hours. Then I joined my husband at home and together we waited for the mass destruction that was promised.

Sunday, September 10th

       Hurricane Irma was the size of the entire state of Florida. News traveled fast of its destruction in the Caribbean and the Florida Keys. As far as we knew, the eye of the storm was supposed to hit the west coast, leaving us to feel the outer bands. Sunday traveled painfully by my window, and I looked out into the misty rain, curious as to when the intensity would start picking up. I charged my devices, got out the candles, filled up my Nalgene bottles, cooked some extra food and watched TV for the last time. Our pet bunnies hopped safely around in our guest bathroom stocked with enough food to live through a dozen hurricanes.

       Irma passed through South Florida at glacier-like speed. I took my last guaranteed hot shower at 4pm and planned to eat as we knew the gusts would be coming soon. The worst of Irma would hit Central Florida at 2am, but we had no idea that the eye of the storm would pass directly through our hilly Clermont. The longer we waited, the more we wondered where she was and what she was up to.

6pm Sunday

       While I quickly ate over-easy eggs and toast, I felt the first jolt of fear as the lights flickered in the kitchen. My eyes widened and I looked at Kevin in the living room. “You better come cook your hot dogs! I think this is it!” Kevin smiled and meandered over for his usual Sunday night meal.

8pm

       Determined to have some fun, I pranced into the spare room to grab our favorite game off the highest shelf of the closet. Holding the Sequence box in my hands, I announced my plans to Kevin. As we played, the lights flickered more often than they were steady. I froze each time, bracing for darkness. I yelped in surprise, asking Kevin, “Are we gonna die?!?” Of course, I wasn’t serious but part of me really did feel fear for whatever this storm was about to dish out. I jumped up mid-game to turn the air conditioning down in the effort to get a head start on cooling the house in case we lost power. Later I would realize that I should have done it hours before then.

10pm

       I roped my wet hair around my head and climbed into my pajamas like any other night. I clicked our black fan on and it roared to life, shooting a breeze into the air. I stared at the bed, hearing whistling winds outside and trying to make a decision about where to sleep. Kevin climbed in without a thought, and I didn’t see any reason to sleep elsewhere. But it was about to be a long night.

12am Monday

       Every time my conscious slipped into darkness, a wolf’s howl raised my eyelids. Every gust of wind that slammed into the window snapped me out of any form of restful sleep. I foolishly considered ear plugs. Then I pictured a tree smashing through my bedroom window and disabling Kevin and I. I wasn’t scared for my life, I was scared of my mom’s lectures if she ever found out we had slept right next to the window during a hurricane. So I sat up. As soon as I stood to review our options, my husband woke up.  “I think we need to move.” I mumbled, walking toward the bathroom. I walked in and turned on the light, immediately shocked by how much noisier it was. Our tiny window made more of a ruckus than our bedroom and I walked right back out, knowing that sleeping on the bathroom floor was out of the question. Kevin was standing up holding the edge of the blanket, his hair sticking out in all directions. I shuffled past him to the closet, my mind suddenly very awake in search of a solution. Peering in, I eyed it and named it our new tiny house. We grabbed the still running fan and re-plugged it in on the floor. I lined the carpet with our one thick sleeping bag and two blankets. I moved my clothes out of the way, tying up the long dresses to the hanger. We laid down and Kevin fell right back to sleep, our ankles kissing at the doorway of the closet. I shoved my hands under my pillow and moved my head around the corner, trying to find a comfortable position. I felt crammed and feared a backache the next morning.

2am

       After fitful dreams, I awoke when the fan turned off. We lost power when the eye passed over. The howling wind continued as I fell in and out of short cycles of sleep.

8am

       Daylight poured into our eerily silent room. No fan. No hum of air conditioning. No distant trickle of water from our turtle’s tank. I rubbed my eyes, feeling strangely rested after a long night. We got up and began the long process of life after Irma.

       After a brief breakfast, we surveyed the damage. Our pergola’s tin roof bent upwards about a foot. The neighbor’s fence lay completely flat on the ground, opening up the yard to our view. We ventured outside in jackets, picking up shingles from our yard. Since our roof was brand new in 2016, each worn shingle we touched was not from us. A few palm branches lay in our yard and we began the windy, windy walk around the neighborhood. The gray skies hovered above, watching Florida recover from a devastating storm.

       I held my arms out and they lifted higher, the wind whipping around my body. Occasional gusts made us feel like Irma hadn’t completely left town yet. I laughed in wonder, nearly shouting to Kevin so he could hear me above the noise. We walked around and saw some of the first of many downed trees. Branches and leaves were littered everywhere, caught between blades of grass and swaying in the wind.

       We had no power indefinitely, and that proved to be the kicker for me. The air in our house grew thicker with each day. Even functioning by candle light was nearly impossible. By my count, I had seven candles going and could still barely see the Sequence board as we had a rematch at 9pm on Monday night.

       By Tuesday our freezer food was melting and I worried about how long it would last. Good friends gave us ice bags after we checked two stores with no luck. Our grill saved us, as we could cook meat and use the hot plate for a small saucepan. But I was running out of creativity and it didn’t take long for me to start lashing out in discomfort and annoyance. I tried to count my blessings but it was tough to be without such a vital lifeline that electricity was to us. I struggled sleeping at night as the temperature rose. On Wednesday morning, I was prepared to reach out to a friend as I knew it would be tough to make it another night. But Kevin texted me in the afternoon, “We have power!” I breathed a sigh of thankfulness. Grocery shopping on Saturday was a nightmare. It seemed like every time I reached for something on my grocery list, it was missing. I spent twice as much money as usual and cried tears of frustration on the way home. But two days later, a check came in the mail from a sweet family member. It was the exact amount that I had spent at the store. She was worried about the food we had lost in the hurricane and helped us replace it. What an angel.

       With every drive I make here in Florida, I notice the way Irma left her mark on this state. I see scores of fences lying on the grass or piled up near driveways, nails sticking out of the wood. Trees are cracked in the middle and resting on grassy lawns. When I run around the neighborhood, I am always beside mountains of brush piled up and I long to crush the brown leaves in my hands. Roofs look like a ten-year-old’s mouth with a few missing teeth. Some roofs are covered in temporary tarp, waiting on the busy roofers to get to their name on the list. Windows are still covered in plywood, left by their owners in case of another storm. I notice some trees are permanently bent in one direction. It’s like someone took a picture of Irma’s presence as she pushed that tree to its limit, bending it so forcefully that it will never revert back to its original condition. I laugh because it looks like a scene from Dr. Seuss, but I know it is just a part of our history now; a part of me and something that bent me forever too.

       Turns out that adventure usually involve some discomfort. In that discomfort, our community bound closer and our houses kept us safe in the storm. The adventure seeker in me is deeply satisfied. I can cross off “Survived a Hurricane” from my bucket list. 

Related Posts
Florida-Welcome Home: Buying our home in Clermont in 2016
Adventure- Ride-along: Eight hours on the streets of Dallas

Contentment: Hold Me, and I Will Hold You

       I’ve written two separate drafts in the last few weeks, each chronicling the aches and pains of this past year. I wrote about my struggles financially, emotionally, relationally and others. I waxed poetic about suffering. I have always been an optimistic, “Life is good so let’s throw a party” kind of person. But this past year bore deep struggles that weighed heavy on my soul. I grasped onto hope nearly every day but when even hope let me down, life just felt impossible.
      I deleted those drafts. The truth is that I am tired of feeling defeated. I am tired of being miserable and I am tired of letting my circumstances dictate my attitude. I have been bitter enough. So my cliché answer is to sift through these futile seconds of each day and rest my eyes on those few good morsels. I want to pinch them between my fingers, absorbing the sweetness into my veins. The negative will fall to the ground, never receiving my attention.
       One of my clients at work recently mentioned that he and his wife have $80,000 in student loan debt that they are trying to pay off. They are 40 years old and just bought a home with over 2000 square feet. In the very next sentence, he told me their plan is to move in a few years into a bigger home with over 2500 square feet, valued at $300,000. I bit my tongue. Partly to be kind, because as a banker I wanted to encourage him to focus more on paying off debt first. But partly because I suddenly didn’t feel so bad about struggling with contentment. God gives us 2000 square feet and we want 2500 square feet. I cannot judge this person because I AM this person. Maybe not physically, but mentally.
       I struggle and question God over and over. I am a chess piece that He has placed for His good purposes yet I have the guts to lift my little face toward Him and tell Him to move me. I want a specific reason for every step instead of trusting His sovereignty. I want a map in my hand instead of His hand as we walk together. I want a reason for every second that I am uncomfortable and He shows me in His word how Paul was beaten regularly, John was beheaded and His only son Jesus was murdered. And I still somehow have the guts to complain, question and cry in rebellion even though I am not the first or last human on this earth to suffer pain.
       I’m grateful. I recognize beautiful gifts in my life and I’m glad they are there. But I am ungrateful more. I bury the things that I love beneath the multitude of things that I question. I stare at my troubles so hard that they gain a stronghold in my heart and become immovable. I spend so much time massaging their ego and they push everything positive straight out of my view. It takes me a minute sometimes to forget that I can stop holding my breath because the world isn’t ending. I can’t believe how far I have fallen.
       I’m a striver; a fighter ready to lay down their armor. I want to cradle peace in my arms as if it is the fragile, angelic thing that can save me. Because I really think it can. I think this life is crazy and blisteringly hard sometimes. And how am I going to survive if I can’t kiss the good things on the cheeks and thank them for being in my life?
       If I hold tight to my pride and control, God can’t fill my arms with peace and contentment. But if I let my arms fall in complete surrender to this reality He has given me, maybe I will see the sweetness He has injected into my short, little life.

DTS: An Expected End

       I walked briskly past Kevin’s home office toward my office, noticing his head down on the desk. The ceiling light blared loudly, bouncing rays off his green striped polo. His head is usually upright, eyes focused intently on his computer as he works. I paused in worry but continued to finish what I was doing. I thought to myself, “Maybe he is just tired.” These last few weeks had scraped painfully by, filled with financial stress, 40-50 hour work weeks for both of us, and heavy discussions on emotional situations in both of our lives. My husband and I were both worn out, and then on top of all of that, his dissertation loomed dark and scary in the background of our minds. His love for the ancient Greek language and its grammar was born in high school and fleshed out in college. He pursued education to the next level, earning accolades along the way. He tacked on Masters degrees to his growing academic resume, finishing with a Master’s of Divinity. In 2011, he was accepted into Southern Baptist Seminary and Dallas Theological Seminary. After weighing both exceptional options, he made the decision to move us to Dallas, Texas to begin stage one of the Ph. D program in New Testament Studies. We were both 21 years old.

       As I made my way to the kitchen to start dinner, I noticed Kevin’s head was still down, tucked between the crook of his elbow. Its abnormality struck me enough to approach. The computer screen displayed the familiar background of his email account and I saw the Dallas Theological Seminary logo immediately on a personal email from the Department Head.

“Dear Kevin Patton, 

I am sorry to hear that you have chosen to withdraw from the program. I recommend that you apply for a Leave of Absence to step away from the dissertation before you consider withdrawing completely.”

        The pit in my stomach swelled and I put my hand on his shoulder. After months of agonizing over the decision to continue with the dissertation or not, I wondered if this was really over or not. I thought back to the days in Dallas where he sat in the library from 9-5pm every single day typing up his research, painfully cramping his hands. I was spending my days working full-time, dealing with angry retirees whose investments didn’t pan out in their IRA accounts. They took it out on me over the phone. I would arrive home from work and our unpleasant dinner conversations were riddled with my complaints and then his complicated explanation of whatever Greek infinitives he had diagrammed, labeled and scrutinized that day. He had his thousands of Greek works to categorize and I listened with expectancy that one day his work would be published. Unfortunately, his health had taken a turn for the worst when he experienced memory loss on a regular basis, followed by a grand mal seizure in the middle of the night on November 7, 2013. His memory came back in bits and pieces and we had hope that he could continue with his studies. Kevin then later finished his classes, passed his agonizing written and oral exams, and was on the “home stretch”. The dissertation. He just had to hunker down and focus on this massive project. A 300 page document that proved to the highly esteemed professors that another fine scholar for their field was in their midst. Kevin worked for over a full year on that dissertation alone, even after the preliminary research he had done throughout his studies . Thousands of hours. And in the fall of 2015, his panel of advisors rejected the first two chapters. Kevin was devastated.

       We had already packed up and moved to Florida, needing a separation from my stressful job and the mental exhaustion he felt after focusing so intently on his doctoral work. Soon after moving to Florida, he was having trouble remembering anything he studied back in Dallas from his four years in the program. His short-term memory capacity was somewhat normal, but complications arose as he retraced his memory from his years in Dallas. Facts, concepts and modern arguments from his courses fell away from a high cliff and were left irretrievable. And with the panel’s denial of his first two chapters, he painfully set it all aside to begin his first full-time job as a twenty-four year old. He wondered if maybe this Ph. D wasn’t what he wanted anymore. Maybe this field of scholarship, this obligation to contribute to the field of biblical studies wasn’t something Kevin felt the need to be a part of.

       I looked at the computer screen. This short email had delivered such a disappointing stamp of finality, something we both weren’t ready for. Why? My protective instincts kicked in. Why is he being forced to make this impossible decision? He worked too hard on a mammoth task, toiling for hours over ancient Greek verbs and now it is to be discarded? And he would be deemed a quitter? This wasn’t him. My anger burned for the professors who turned down his first two chapters, claiming that the research was “masters’ level.” I wanted to cry in a fit of defiance, standing up for my husband whose brain has been eaten away by a form of epilepsy. Whose passion for academic study has been waned only by the onset of a physical illness. My husband, whose seizure medication makes him prone to feeling the draining, dark thoughts of depression. And like a child, I responded aloud. “This isn’t fair.” He had put in the work on nights and weekends for months to re-vamp his first two chapters again to be acceptable to his advisors. But every time he worked on it, his jaw set harder and he shook his head in disbelief. “I can’t do this. I don’t know anything anymore. I hate working on it and there is no way I can finish, even if they do accept these two chapters again.” I watched him work for months, knowing it was torture. I selfishly and secretly wished for it all just to be over. We had moved on. We bought our first house and settled into new jobs. Dallas was beginning to fade into photos in a scrapbook. This dissertation though, it clung to the ends of our clothes like a nagging animal that refused to let go. As much as we wanted it to go away, we knew he would either need to put in more hours of work or withdraw. We didn’t ever want it to come to this.

       The next day Kevin showed me a form with that DTS logo in the corner. Withdrawal Request. In the lines beneath contact info, the form asked for the Reason for Withdrawal.

       What was the reason? Was it the program itself, the demand for excellence and the unwavering academic “Powers that be” that shook their head at his work? The program that Kevin signed up for so long ago, not knowing the full intensity that it would demand from him? Was it health alone- the fact that his brain attacked every bit of knowledge and memory input over the years as if he hadn’t worked so hard to store it up? Was it the money that we would be expected to pay in tuition each semester until he finished the entire dissertation, even if he wasn’t actively working on it or was under a Leave of Absence? Was it the misunderstanding of expectations, that scholarship wasn’t really the Kevin Patton that we knew him to be? That he didn’t want to write books and articles and argue about linguistics and biblical exegesis? Reasons. There are reasons that cannot be articulated in the five skinny lines that lay there. But Kevin explained his situation as best as he could, as respectfully as he could. I held the form, fighting the urge to rip it up. The thin piece of paper invoked such emotion. Confusion. Pain. Anger. Pain of feeling robbed of something that Kevin had earned. Pain from the heartbreaking truth that his work didn’t meet the doctoral standards. Confusion because we are not ones to back down from what we set out to accomplish. Anger that it seems like Kevin’s hard work didn’t pay off. That I spent years working to get him through school for nothing. And who is to blame? No one and everyone, all at the same time. Decisions are not always black and white. Sometimes it is impossible to know which way to turn because either decision feels like a slap in the face to our character.

       I looked up to see the sad look on his face. The slow turn of his lips in surrender, the defeat that emitted from his gentle eyes. Again, I tell him that it’s not fair. He knows. But he knows there is nothing else to be done. It is over. He wasn’t meant to be a doctor. As much as he loves learning, studying and growing in his knowledge of the scriptures, a doctoral degree isn’t a requirement. He doesn’t need a Ph. D to be the Kevin Patton we all know and love. We can nitpick and blame, complaining about how the system failed us. Or even how God seemingly led us astray. But it’s not true. Our time at DTS provided education and preparation for the rest of our lives.

       I could elaborate on and on about all the benefits that we received from Dallas Theological Seminary. The classes, the relationships, the vigor in which Kevin studied and learned deep truths about scripture and the original languages. We don’t regret our time there for a second. We are grateful that after five years of study, they are granting him the degree of STM: Masters of Sacred Theology. This degree could have been attained earlier in his doctoral studies if he didn’t pursue dissertation. So 90% of this degree was earned within twelve months of starting the program. It is a sort of consolation prize, but a prize nonetheless. He spent four years in a seminary that has been known for training an astounding number of Christian leaders, pastors and missionaries. He sat in classrooms with some of the greatest minds, feasting on their words and teachings that dripped heavily with wisdom.

       I wish I could give Kevin the world. I wish I could convince DTS that he is more than that certificate says he is. I wish there was a happier ending. But hanging up the cream-colored piece of paper in his office gives me pride. Pride that he did the best he could. Pride that he is not letting this setback ruin him. And pride that I can look at that certificate and know the hidden meaning behind those printed words. From acceptance letter to STM certificate, I consider it an honor to have been a part of the journey.

Related Post: Remember: Kevin's Medical History

Yolande's story

       It’s only fitting that today is a drizzly, dreary morning with no hope of sunshine. These are the days in movies where the main character trudges slowly, solemnly, to the gravesite. I step out of my car and peer over at the desolate landscape of grass that grows above soulless bodies. I hate that I am here, looking for someone that I love. I wrap my wool sweater around me, its presence a small comfort to shield the light rain. The canopy of trees covers me as I walk slowly into the cemetery.

       The leaves under my flats are wilted and damp with rain. They make no sound as I gently walk over them. I am vaguely aware of where the tombstone stands, but not entirely certain. I have only been here once before, on the day of the funeral. I shudder when I remember the moment the dirt began to pile on top of the casket. It seemed cruel, rude even to shower dirt on such a beautiful wood casket. It seemed even crueler to hide the body in such a low and forgotten place forever. When I stared down at the casket in the ground, I vowed never to come back to this place again.

       But here I am, and his name blares loudly across the tombstone. He was my father. My stoic, stronger than brick father with a pumping fleshy heart beating somewhere within him. His heart pumped love for his family and we felt it something fierce. His face had worn the years of hard work, and his leathered skin felt thick to the touch. He used to hold me on his lap when I was little, reading books to me by the lamplight. My eyes struggled to make sense of the letters and words as his low voice lulled the story on. My pulse quickened with suspense as the characters grew and struggled and I loved them deeply as my own friends. 

       I wipe quiet tears from my cheeks as they mix with the soft rain coming down. The reason I came here to today was to tell him that I forgive him.

       Ever since I was a little girl, I carried my name with me like a heavy burden. One of the stories he told me was of his little sister, Yolande. She became very sick and died at only ten years old. My father was thirteen at the time. His mother was crushed beyond comprehension, and the older kids picked up the work while she mourned for months. It was a time of poverty and my father worked hard to please his mother through her loss. Many years later when he married and his own wife gave birth, he thought of his mother and his little sister. He wanted to keep the name alive after its owner had relinquished it. So he looked into the small, blue eyes of his little girl. With a twinge of pain, he named his newborn Yolande after his once beloved sister. I am Yolande.

       But my bitterness cries cold and angry because no happiness has come of this. My grandmother shared no joy in his decision and even expressed her disagreement loud and rude. I heard her angry words, "She will never be Yolande to me" and I felt such shame. Shame in the name that had been bestowed on me in sadness as a gift for a woman who never wanted such an honor in the first place. I wanted to separate from my name. I wanted to rip it off of me and give it back to its rightful owner. Every second of my childhood, I didn’t want to be Yolande.

       My father never apologized because I think he was too ashamed. He didn’t know that the naming of his little girl after his missed sister would catapult such turmoil in his life. I think he wanted to remember her but as the years went on, his memories didn’t comfort him. He was just as miserable being reminded of his dead sister through his child, as he was haunted by her memories before I was even born.

       I am forty years old now and could have changed my name a long time ago. With the turbulence I always felt regarding its origin, I am surprised that I never filed the paperwork as an adult. But my father was still alive back then and I don’t know that it would have solved anything. So I am Yolande still, but he is gone. And the torture of my name is mine alone to bear.

       But today I give it up. Today I forgive my good-natured father who meant well but also failed. I touch my hands to his grave and let my fingers warm up the cold stone that it is. I look into the eyes of his name on the tombstone and let my forgiveness seep into all that lies there. I touch the memories, the thought of his good character and his wide open arms. I remember his warm embrace as we huddled around a book near the fire and I choose to cling to that instead. I vow to protect the name and all that it means. I vow to bear the weight of a loss from so long ago. And I rid myself of the pain, leaving it at the site of the grave, emptying the space in my heart so that it can be filled once more with the precious memories of my father. Because by being his child, I find my true identity.

***This short piece is based on a true story.  

Our Last Shopping Trip Together: A Mother's Day Story

       My mom was small, quiet, holding in emotions as we shuffled into the first wedding shop. It was spring of 2010 and my wedding was a few short months away. We first chose a small boutique that was family owned. Mirrors lined the back wall opposite of the large dressing rooms. My mom had shoulder length brown hair, straight like thousands of pine needles, and glasses rested on her petite face. She wore a jacket to escape the Michigan chill. She walked in short steps because of her impaired hip and physical pain marred her every move. Today she was ready to experience something new and different. She was taking her only daughter shopping for a wedding dress. She was so reserved, holding back expectations and emotions with each breath. She took each moment as it came, holding them carefully as if not to crush a piece of precious china placed delicately in her hands. 

       This was new for both of us. I am the sixth kid of seven, and the only girl. Though mine would be the sixth wedding of the family, I was the first daughter bride. And we both felt the weight. The weight of our shopping history together composed mostly of frustration and angry tears. The weight that came with the fact that we sometimes shared a tense and complicated mother/daughter relationship. We worried quietly of what could happen, how things could go wrong. 

       I scanned through the inventory freely, only partly sure of the style I wanted. Forget the princess poof, off-white gowns or simple nightgown looking dresses. My list: a fun, strapless dress, something that felt like me. And I liked the pulled tufts on the bottom half of the dress. I picked out three heavy dresses and we carried them to the back. The store was almost empty, and Mom sat alone on a bystander’s simple plastic chair. I climbed up on the podium adorned in the first dress. I looked at myself in the mirror, my hair tied up in an athletic band, sporting my usual casual self. The milky gown made my skin look paler than it already did and I cringed. I slipped my hands across the silky gown and loved its softness but was not impressed with how I looked. I peered back at Mom while feeling underwhelmed. Her head tilted sideways and we chatted briefly. Mostly I swung to and fro, feeling the material beneath my fingers but longing to rid myself of it. I tried on another and while it looked elegant, the material felt flat and un-adorned. The next one was a beautiful mermaid shape, but still didn’t feel right on me. I would say trying on these dresses was fun, but only in the experimental way that trying anything for the first time is fun. I had never done this before.

                        

                  

       But my mom. My mother who birthed one unique little girl into a sea of boys felt oh so differently. Her sweet face took mental pictures of her young, pale daughter adorning wedding dresses one after another. Tears gathered at her eyes and her words were few. She looked at me cautiously after each one. “Oh Kim, I am no help at all, you are just so beautiful in each one.” She was indeed no help in any fashion sense, but this is how we had always been. The only two women we knew that shopped out of pure necessity. We had always jointly hated the pursuit of necessary clothing due to season change and growth spurts. Today was different of course, we were hunting dresses worth hundreds or thousands of dollars. But today was also the same. She and I weren’t overly concerned about specifics; we were just doing what we needed to do. So we clung together with our secret bond that as mother and daughter, we would accomplish what we came for. 

       We left the store empty handed but with slightly more intelligence about the choices and styles than we had before. It wouldn’t take long for the work to pay off. I had my own opinions of David’s Bridal. Mainly that it was a monopoly and we had no other choice but to succumb to its forces at some point. There was hardly any other competition that we had the energy to seek out. The store was bustling with people underneath its bright lights. The dressing room was fitted for queens. The platforms in front of giant mirrors were stages to the enticing world of becoming a gorgeous bride. It was dramatic and sweeping and the energy in the place seeped into my skin. I watched small crowds of family and friends join around to view and comment and sigh loudly, touching hems as the prospect spun around daintily. This faintly intrigued me but I wasn’t dying to be on the podium. I had always been the kind of girl that ran away from these situations. I just wanted to find an affordable dress that I liked. I didn’t know the feeling that I was waiting for until it suddenly struck me. 

       I walked down the aisles on a mission, thumbing through the discount racks and finding nothing. I sifted through the poofy mess all around me, finding three or four options. My sister-in-law Emily was with us. We asked about sizes and more options, and the attendant mentioned ordering online. I had no interest in dragging out this ordeal beyond the storefront. We flipped over price signs, promptly moving on or peering in for a closer look. I asked myself what I liked, but didn’t really know how to answer such a simple question. I climbed into a dress under the lights. We touched it and talked and moved on to another. A smile crept onto my lips in the dressing room and a spark lit within me as I slid into the next gown. I opened the door to see the others and climbed up on the pedestal. I swished back and forth in what felt like a dress of perfection. My lips spread wide instantly and I watched my eyes sparkle like the gems on the dress. I touched the gorgeous beads sewn delicately onto the surface with a shy strip of lace lining the top of the dress, perfectly landing on my freckled skin. I wrapped my hands around the middle sash, feeling its tight band of authority splitting up the top and bottom. The tufts pulled up, scattered all over the skirt from waist to floor and I delighted in every square inch. I smiled and laughed, so enchanted, effortlessly joyous from the beads and the beauty springing forth. It was the dress. Not for any logical reason but because of the pure joy it brought. 

       An attendant gently set a veil on my head and it was then that the simple tears welled up. It was real. I was days away from turning twenty-one years old, and I was wearing the dress in which I would whisper the vows that would make me Mrs. Kimberly Patton. 

       Meanwhile, my mother Mrs. Carrel hung back, asking me again and again if I was sure. She had seen my smile and taken my picture and smiled right along with me. I had found the dress and it was obvious to me that this pursuit was complete. But the task wasn’t over yet. In plain clothes, we slowly approached the counter. My frugal mother was hesitant. Other options were mentioned as we walked over but I dismissed everything. I know she wanted me to be sure, but it took her a few minutes to feel sure herself. The dress wasn’t exactly pulled from the $99 rack. It was $1,000 and would be far more expensive than any jeans or winter coats that she had bought for me before. I knew it was a lot to ask, so I gingerly looked her in the eyes. “Mom, it’s the one. I love it and it makes me so happy. Can we please?” I knew my mother’s logic was torturing her inside. $1,000? For a one-time wear? Whatever hesitation she felt, she swallowed it. In one quick movement, she did something so loving, so full of understanding and trust in her young daughter. She pulled out her credit card. We hugged in finality, knowing my childhood was coming to an end somewhat abruptly. We had shopped together all those years in our own quirky way. We spent one last shopping trip together and I think this was the best one.

                         








         

    

Related: Kevin and Kim: Rewind to the Beginning