A different Christmas story

The evening was quiet as I made my way up to the roof. The stars twinkled over a sleepy city, and I never tired of the view. My cloak draped over my slender shoulders and I held the oils and cloth in my arms. The cool air welcomed me as I walked toward the corner. The cloak slipped off my shoulders and I quickly sponged in the semi-warm water before it cooled off. My long hair dripped down my back as I tiptoed down the steps to finish my bedtime routine. I wondered how my small living quarters felt so big. Without my husband, the air is empty and the fire not quite warm enough. My heart always aches when he is away at war, but when the sun goes down and all falls silent… Tears are my only warmth. I am without my love. 

A rap at the door snaps my head to the right. I tie my cloak tighter and cross the room in my bare feet. A servant stands in royal garb and motions for me to come outside. “The king requests your presence at once.” My heart caught in my throat and all things important fell from my thoughts. Trembling, I followed his lead. The way was uneventful, given it was past midnight. I was sure this strange summons was concerning my husband who was away at war. What else would the king want with me? I am of no worth to such a powerful man. 

The servant left me in front of a gold plated door. His footsteps lingered down the hall as I watched him leave me destitute. All I wore was my dingy cloak in the elaborate palace. I knew nothing. Fear gripped me and I debated running away. The once closed door opened mysteriously, slowly, and the king stood before me. His eyes were not of power, wealth or war. Instead, I sensed his loneliness. He took my hand. 

I never saw my cloak again. In fact, the thick garment that was given to me in the morning keeps me warmer than I have ever been in my life. As beautiful as it is, it is a reminder of the insistence of one powerful king. That night broke my heart. It broke my vow to my husband, though I was at the hand of the king’s bidding. It broke my respect for the king. I didn’t even have the words to stand up for myself. I didn’t have the courage. I didn’t have the chance… The king’s mind was made up. 

Servants from the palace rushed to my garden weeks later to inform me that my husband walked through the courts to see the king. I instantly smiled, as I didn’t expect him home for months! But as I washed my hands and tidied the kitchen, fear gripped me. I was still sorting out what had happened that night on the roof and I didn’t know how to tell my husband that he was to be the father to a baby without his eyes or his gentle spirit. I touched my stomach and stared out the window. Who should I talk to? What can I do to avoid further pain? I cleaned and cooked anyway, waiting for the door to burst open at any second. I laid on the mat when nausea swept over me. The cool washcloth gave me chills that were already present. What will I say to him? My innocent and naïve husband; He doesn’t deserve this. 

The door never opened and his side of the mat never warmed. Word came to my door sometime after from the same soldier, but with heavy hands and slight hesitation. My husband was killed in battle. My fatherless womb cried out and I crumpled to the ground. Close friends ushered me inside and cared for my every immediate need. But they could not touch my soul. They could not heal my wounds inside because they didn’t know. My pride and confusion prevented me from confiding in them. 

I kept my secret tight within as I gathered my belongings and kissed my neighbors goodbye. The living quarters took my breath away, but I still wasn’t sure why I was here. My husband is dead and silk sheets are supposed to replace him? I ran my fingers across the tassels on the pillows and glanced out the window. Pain shot into my gut, and it wasn’t just the baby moving. My tears were barely dried when someone showed up at my door. It was the king. I brushed hair away from my face and dared to look at him. He walked toward me and took my hand like the first night. I resisted the urge to pull away, but once again I was under his power. 

“I am sorry to hear about your husband. Please, you are now my wife. Everything you need is here, no need to beg. What can I have brought for you, my darling?” My lip trembled and words choked. As calmly as I could, I let his embrace prove to be my new home as tears of grief fell down my cheeks. 

After our child was born, my new husband looked at our son with sadness and grief, as if he knew something I didn’t. Before I had a chance to ask, the babe fell ill with a fever that couldn’t be contained. I stayed with nurses and my firstborn child day and night. After seven brief days on this earth, his spirit left me alone once again. The product of the awful confusion from that night could have been my salvation. He could have been a beautiful blessing that drew our family closer together. He could have grown into a strong, fearless leader with rights to the throne. But instead, I was left to ask why our son was gone. I received my answer but it wasn’t what I wanted to hear. My husband confessed his intentions in a poetic letter to me, and he later spoke with me in person so I could see it in his eyes. The truth cut deep but made sense all at the same time. His sins had caused the pain and division in our broken family. The king had fallen, and he knew it. 

I lost my innocence. I lost my husband. I lost my firstborn child and was married to the man who solely was to blame for all of it; all in the same year. I told God that I was too young for this. I felt the sting of an unfair hand dealt to me, but I knew in some way that the plan was bigger than me. It took days. Years. It took more children and a forgiven husband to salve my wounds. A powerful king can do whatever he wants, and King David sure did. But the powerful, Almighty King of Kings by His mercy and grace will accomplish His perfect will. In no other kingdom do we trust. 

-Bathsheba

Mother of Solomon

Family Line of Jesus Christ, Son of God, Savior of the world. 

Merry Christmas

Author's Note: This story is Historical Fiction. I wrote it from the perspective of Bathsheba, and it is strictly my interpretation of what it might have felt like to be in her position. 

Kevin and Kim: Rewind to the beginning

One of my favorite dating memories from college was when Kevin surprised me by secretly buying a Valentines’ Day singing telegram. It was not something that anyone expected from a shy introvert like Kevin, so he had me fooled.

It was 2009. Our busy college lives seemed to keep us apart rather than together, so a date night was heavenly. I turned off my ever-buzzing phone and took a deep breath in the booth at Applebee’s. Suddenly, a group of three guys barged into the restaurant searching for us. Rick, one of the loudest and craziest students on campus, stomped through the rows wearing a life-size Cupid costume. Diaper included. He brought his goons along, carrying a boom box in one hand, and a dozen roses in the other. My face reddened and I could not believe my eyes. Rick set the CD player on the table, handed me the flowers and pressed play. “And IIIIIIII will always love yooouuuu!” The three college bachelors howled through the Whitney Houston song for a very long minute, drawing the attention of tables all around. My boyfriend hired these horrendous songbirds to come serenade me? I filled the air with laughter. The boys accepted the gracious applause from me and other amused patrons, bowed and took their leave. Kevin’s wide smile told me that this was exactly what he wanted.

Flashing back to May of 2007; Kevin Patton and I didn’t fall in love at first sight. But we were happy to meet each other for the first time. I hopped out of a mini-van and shook his hand. I had heard stories about him because he was best friends with my then boyfriend who lived in the same dorm. We put a face with a name and left it at that. Little did I know, we would become the three musketeers during the fall semester when I moved to campus as a freshman at Tennessee Temple University in Chattanooga, Tennessee.  

I quickly merged into the boys’ core group of friends. I observed Kevin at a safe distance nearly every day. He was a mysteriously quiet kid with occasional sarcastic quips under his sleeve. He wore simple collared shirts, a brown track jacket and carpenter jeans. It didn’t take long to discover how much we had in common and how comfortable we were in each other’s presence. I loved the freedom of running around the greens with a bunch of college dudes, playing Ultimate Frisbee and football every spare afternoon.

The coffee shop held our Three Musketeer lunches at least twice a week. Boyfriend. Girlfriend. And non-awkward third wheel. I begged my class to finish quicker so I could prance across the street and order my greasy hamburger. The friendship between us three was real and very special. We joked and laughed constantly, and they also both helped me spiritually. At 18 years old, I had a list of neatly stacked theological questions on a turquoise paper that I went through with them. Leaving my hometown pushed me to think for myself, and I needed to tackle doubt head on. The boys were patient with me and didn’t hand me straight up answers. They probed my questions with more questions and challenged me to be okay with not knowing the answers.

I can only imagine my reaction if someone from the future had walked up to my table and announced:

“Kim. You aren’t going to marry him” pointing at my boyfriend…

“You are going to marry him” pointing at Kevin Patton.

I would have grunted in disbelief. What? That’s insane. There’s no way.

One night as our little group walked to the girls’ dorm for Open Dorms night, Kevin mentioned a passage in the New Testament regarding women. His theological explanation stuck out to me as more profound than just a regular college kid. I saw a glimpse of the depth in Kevin’s thought process and it stopped me in my tracks. After Open Dorms, I scribbled an after-thought in my journal about Kevin. I mentioned what he said and then confidently wrote, “His wife is going to be so lucky.” I had NO idea that the lucky one would be me. In five short months, Kevin would shuffle from the background to center stage.

One day at dinner, Kevin was casually asked to fill in for Bible Study on Thursday. The Bible Study was normally an acoustic-driven, discussion-based hour. Kevin jumped at the chance to lead the Bible study as a sub. “How much time do I have?” The leader looked confused. “Uh, whatever you need.” Kevin confidently said he would take forty minutes. I furrowed my eyebrows, wondering why he was so picky about the timing.

Thursday night came, and I sat in the coffee shop with about 6-7 others, not sure what to expect. Kevin passed out a packet to everyone at 7pm sharp. For forty minutes, I listened intently as the nice, quiet kid preached to each one of us sitting around that table. He talked about the greatness of God throughout creation, and with every word I became more convinced of God’s character and absolute control in our lives. Kevin’s words were filled with passion and direction, and he took us all on a journey that rendered me speechless. I left the coffee shop in awe, hearing a side of Kevin that I never expected. He was shaping into a person that surprised and impressed me at every turn.

Months passed after the first blissful semester of my college experience. A curve in the road came out of nowhere and I nearly flew off the cliff. My relationship of three years ended, leaving me confused and hurt. It was a respectful break-up but I didn’t know what to do next. Our trio was ruined and I avoided the boys to protect my heart from further pain. Dinners with friends were now awkward, and I huddled close to my best friend Jen, wondering if she would leave me too. She didn’t. I will never forget what she said when I complained yet again, apologizing for keeping her away from the boys. Her short blonde hair framed her beautiful, friendly face and her eyes didn’t betray her words. “You are more important to me than boys right now.” I was depriving her of memories, yet she chose our friendship instead. I was guilt-ridden, wondering if she were in my position… would I have been as kind to her? I honestly didn’t know.

But the stupid thing was, Kevin stayed on my mind. Constantly. Each morning I woke up and wondered when I would see him that day. Maybe I wouldn’t talk to him, but I wanted desperately to see him; even just the back of his head in chapel. It took a few months for him to send an email, telling me that he missed seeing me. What once was normal had disappeared, and I was comforted to know that it affected him too. The poor kid was happy playing third wheel, and he missed our times together.

One day through email, Kevin promised to show up at the coffee shop after basketball that night to see me. I “studied” in the balcony, hoping that the next squeak of the door would be him, bounding up to my table with a smile. Well, he showed up all right. His sweaty self sat right in front of me and his blue eyes were even brighter from the exertion. When I casually admitted that I was waiting for him, he blew me off with one sarcastic quip that I couldn’t get past. “I am just here to get some water.” He lifted the plastic cup to his lips and I nodded slowly. Hmm. He’s just getting water. The sweet kid had just offended me, pushing a button that brought out something feisty. I called him the next day and asked him to meet me outside because we had to talk.

“You called?” He casually staggered down the steps. I was pacing in my school clothes: dress pants and tiny heels.

“Yes. We need to talk about what happened last night.” I was all business. “ You can’t mess with me like that. It may not seem like a big deal to you…” The embarrassing honesty continued, but I trusted him with my truth. “I put myself out there for you last night and you blew me off. It’s still early. My heart can’t handle games right now.” I paused and moved forward with my point. “What is this thing that we are doing? What are you expecting?” He was caught, but dealt with the question gracefully. His hands were stuffed in his pockets and he took a second to gather his thoughts.  

“I am obviously attracted to you. I see possibility. But I am not thinking long-term.” His words dripped sweet then stung, because he had been hijacking my thoughts since January! My emotions were clearly a little ahead of his. So I catered to his logical side and pushed him to make a decision. “So what should we do?” He lifted his leg and propped it on the stone bench, hands still in his pockets. He looked into the distance. “Let’s just hang out by ourselves. We’ve never done that before, so let’s give it a try and see what happens.” As much as I liked the idea of spending some time together, I knew that it was risky, given my past relationship with his best friend. Our school was small, and the status of couples was always a hot topic. We wouldn’t be able to hide from them for long. “Alright, deal.” He smiled, and I felt better knowing that we at least had clear direction. “Wanna go to dinner?” I nodded, and we bravely walked into the unknown together.

We may not have fallen in love at first sight, but two weeks of one-on-one was enough to prove that we had something special. We spent a Monday night in the library, a Thursday night in the coffee shop, and even two hours standing in the rain. We talked about our families, our hometowns, our loves and hates, college, our faith… the questions on our mind were answered, and each discussion confirmed our growing and very personal connection.

May 8^th, 2008 marked our first official date off campus. The only reason it was declared a date was because Kevin bought food: Pringles and Propel. (I am a cheap date). We walked around Coolidge Park, sat on a blue bench and looked at the moon.

We knew in just a few days we would be writing “Have a good summer!” in each other’s yearbooks. We had no idea it would be our first of three long summers apart.

We spent the summer separately ministering, scattered across several states; but our nation’s Independence Day was circled on the calendar. We were both scheduled to be in Atlanta, Georgia and Kevin wanted me to meet his family. The night before July 4^th, I made a strict, no-nonsense, all business list. I was so dead serious about figuring out if this thing with Kevin was the real deal. The possibility of love again scared me, and I still carried the weight of a broken relationship. I didn’t want to drag Kevin into something that I couldn’t emotionally handle.

I had to know if I was going to marry this Georgia boy or not. Because if I didn’t have the peace of marriage, I wasn’t about to set myself up for a second heartbreak.

July 4^th was a beautiful day. My pink v-neck was thin because of the Georgia heat, and my white shorts were simple and playful. I shut the back door behind me and scampered down the steep hill, careful not to slip on the dried pine needles. Kevin waited for me in the parking lot, and I met his family. We all drove to Red Top Mountain State Park for a picnic lunch and hiking. Kevin took me on a walk through the park, and we took our first picture together. We climbed down stairs to the beach and spent a few minutes watching the sun glint off of the water. The hours we spent that day confirmed to both of us that our prayers were answered. 

On August 13^th, 2008, Kevin asked me to be his co-pilot; his girlfriend. I was anxious to start making memories together and of course accepted his request. What started out as a new taboo couple on campus, turned into what was supposed to happen all along. Who would have thought?

          

From that point on, we knew we were going to get married. Couples probably shouldn’t talk about that early in their dating period, but we broke that rule without a care. The wedding date was set for ASAP, mainly graduation. College was busy, stressful, and emotionally exhausting. Our dating life consisted of eating dinner in the cafeteria with friends, sitting in church or chapel together-(when I wasn’t working), playing Ultimate Frisbee, and attempting to study in the library. We didn’t always have access to a car or free time to even go off campus. College was rough to say the least, and we both looked forward to our future together beyond school.

Our timeline was looking like December of 2010, an untimely collision with my graduation date. After Christmas break in 2009, I dreaded another entire year of waiting, so I crunched some numbers. I realized that it would be cheaper to live off campus with Kevin. So that meant an early wedding. And an early proposal. When I looked at the calendar, I didn’t see much time. I had to put my stats in front of Kevin. Despite my Mom’s efforts to convince me to let Kevin be a gentleman, I took matters into my own hands.  

Once again at school together, we plopped down in the field by the gym, and I started picking at the grass. This could be awkward, but I trusted him and was confident that he would hear me out without judgment. “Kevin, this is weird. But I figured out how much I am going to have to dish out this Fall, and it’s cheaper for us… to live together. So that would mean a summer wedding. Then I will only have one semester left, and I won’t have to plan a wedding while cramming 18 credits in before Christmas.” He nodded. He asked a few questions. Then he turned to me and said,  “We should probably get engaged then.” We hugged in agreement, and I headed back to my dorm to calm my anxious heart. Was this really happening?

February rolled around, and Kevin was still pretty quiet about our little deal. Unfortunately, I said yes to a weekend trip to Alabama with my friend Summer because I was tired of keeping an open schedule for Kevin’s proposal. But regret stung me to the core when I saw the look on Kevin’s face when I told him my plans. “Kim, you can’t go. Sunday is the day.” My heart plummeted and I immediately reacted in anger. College had beat us up and heavily impacted our dating life, and this was disgusting icing on an unfair cake dealt to both of us. We were crushed.

I approached my friend. “Summer, you can’t tell anyone… But I need to be back on campus by Sunday so that Kevin can propose.” Her eyes widened and she hugged me. “Kim, I’d do anything for you. It will be a quick trip, but I will bring you back in time.” I breathed a sign of relief and smiled. My dreams were about to come true!

So what does a guy do when his girlfriend knows he is about to propose? He blindfolds her. With his church tie. Kevin weaved around the back roads of Chattanooga so I wouldn’t pick up on which highway he was getting on. (I had no clue where we were going anyway). Kevin opened the door for me and took my hand to Red Top Mountain State Park. It was a sweet reminder of the day that we took our first picture together, and the day we both received the confirmation we had been waiting for.

Now, his proposal technique was tricky. Because he knew that I knew that he was proposing, he actually “fake proposed” two times before he popped the question. He asked me to Homecoming and Six Flags. After Six Flags, I was dreadfully confused and we were running out of beautiful spots in the park. At last we came up to the swimming area, but we were met with a fence. The sun was slowly falling but it was still an hour or so until sunset. The place was empty, and he turned to me to start his speech. He even had a reason to get down on one knee- reminding me that he used to fake-tie-his-shoe when waiting for me to come out of dinner. Sometimes he tied and untied his shoes for fifteen minutes. My almost fiancé knelt down to lift a ring box from a rubber band around his ankle. (Ouch!) He popped it open, revealing a gorgeous, diamond-studded ring and asked me to marry him. It was so beautiful, I thought it was fake! 

We heard a faint “Congratulations!” from strangers nearby. My eyes were glued to my new ring, counting all the minuscule diamonds. He looked at me and asked, “Do you want to go to Atlanta? It’s only a half hour drive from here.” I called my parents and as many brothers as I could, as well as two bridesmaids. We surprised his parents in the middle of choir practice, and enjoyed a celebratory dinner afterwards. I came home late into the dorm that night and my friend Summer flashed me a big smile while I flashed my ring. I was so proud of her for keeping tight lips.

On July 30^th, 2010, my favorite girls in the world surrounded me in a back room as I opened a hand-delivered card from my soon-to-be husband. The grueling days of waiting were over and at 6:30pm, my Dad walked me down the aisle so I could hold the hand of my future. My unexpected love. Kevin beamed in his borrowed white tux, and preached his own Gospel message during the ceremony. I stood there proudly in my tight dress trying to breathe, and I couldn’t have been more proud. He kissed me and carried me down the aisle and made me a Patton. We hugged our guests, ate our colorful cake, and ran underneath a bridge of arms to embark on forever together.

I didn’t know Kevin was for me. I used to scout out the Bible college boys and check them off my list according to why I wouldn’t marry them. The problem was, every time my mind wandered to Kevin… I couldn’t think of a legitimate reason not to marry him. There wasn’t one. God plucked Kevin Patton from Atlanta, Georgia, and Kim Carrel from Grand Rapids, Michigan and landed us both at TTU. He led us, whispered truth to our hearts and struck a match of a deep mutual love that brought us together. And with His guidance and grace, we will never separate.   

Kevin and Kim. Patton magic... 'till death do us part.

Lucy

           Lucy’s favorite part of the wedding wasn’t her frilly flower girl dress or the faint glitter on her cheeks. It definitely wasn’t picture time, even when she hopped up on the bride’s back for a few quick pictures. It was during the speeches when her eyes kept darting over to the colorful, sugar-filled table. At four years old, her little fingers barely reached the candy dishes. She loaded up a small bowl, popped a squat near the dance floor and watched the world go round.

            With curly red hair, dimples and an irresistible smile, Lucy made her appearance in three weddings before six years old. As years go on, her hair grows to her shoulders but those innocent dimples remain. She grows up in a home with several acres in the backyard. She regularly feeds animals, races up trees and even planted her own garden with the help of an older sister. By twelve years old, she knows she wants to own her own farm one day. Her garden gloves are always dirty, and a purple bandanna holds her sweaty hair back in place as she gathers up peppers and cucumbers.

            Lucy doesn’t give up on her dreams as a high school graduate and attends a university with a program that fits her perfectly. She notices boys but it doesn’t take long for Mr. Right to notice her and offer to walk her home one night. Because of that special twinkle in his eye, Lucy gave him a chance. Together they sketch land designs and get started on a greenhouse project. He doesn’t mind her sweaty forehead and muddy hands. He knows that Lucy is the one he wants to grow old with so he begs her to marry him. She giggles with tears in her eyes, and tells him that he doesn’t really have to beg. Of course she’ll marry him!

            Now it’s her turn to be the bride and the wedding is hosted beneath a tree that she planted when she was a little girl. Tiny flowers from her garden line her low-lying, curly red bun, and wisps of hair fly loosely, framing her face. Lucy’s dreams are coming true.

***

But this never happened. It couldn’t have, because Lucy never had a chance to live.

You see, Lucy’s mother was merely sixteen when she gasped at the positive pregnancy test in her apartment. She was lied to, coerced and prodded to make an appointment at an abortion clinic. Her trembling hands wiped away tears as she walked back to a room she would remember forever. The doctor stripped Lucy away from her mother’s womb and laid her tiny body in a metal coffin, never to be seen again. Her heart ceased to beat and her little eyes never opened.

Lucy never was.

My Cop Buddy

It was August, and I was settling into my third month at my new office job. I had a brief past with office life, but never before had I truly dived into “Cubicle life.” 9am-5pm, the real deal. Staples, paper clips, legal size hanging files, and paper cuts. A monstrous leap from my jean wearing, kid bouncing nanny days. My hands were shaking the first time I had answered the phone, terrified that the client would run their mouths about investments that I had NO clue about. For the first few weeks I was exactly right. I just told them I needed to review their account or speak with “another department” and stuck the black receiver on hold. Most of the time my supervisor took the call and I listened, attempting to get a grasp of the client’s train of thought. It was rough to wrap my 23-year-old brain around retirement life and alternative investments.

Rector McCollum called the main line, and I was fortunate enough to answer. He was in a pickle, and I helped walk him through the process of paying his dues to his particular investment. He talked fast and told witty one-liners, instantly setting me at ease. He was a retired cop from Dallas, swore like a sailor, knowing no bounds. I sat in my gray cubicle cracking up, not wanting the conversation to end. We talked on the phone for nearly ten minutes, and he kept me laughing every second of it. I hung up with the urge to take a couple laps around the office, smile plastered on my face. A few days later his payment came through in the mail and the paperwork landed on my desk. A small note accompanied it:

“Thanks for all your help. Let me know if you ever need a cop.” – Rector McCollum

This client was officially my first favorite.

A year later he wanted to stop by the office to get some more assistance. We met in the conference room, and he instantly showed his respect and gratitude for our company. His investment had been giving him some trouble, and he looked to me to bail him out. Bail him out I did, and because of his kindness I quickly completed the paperwork for him right there on the table. He pointed to my turquoise half-sleeved sweater. “Kim, when are you going to get a raise around here so that you can afford sleeves on your sweater?” His gray mustache perked up above a dorky smile, and I laughed, happy to be in his company.

He relaxed in the comfy chair, wearing a “retirement-style” Hawaiian shirt and jeans. He had big glasses and a glassy baldhead. He started sharing stories about traveling to Uruguay, Europe, and unique places around Texas. He gave me tips and unbridled opinions about food, people, and the culture. I relished the few moments away from my desk, and he was glad to spill the guts on some of his police buddies with a few of his cop stories. He’d been on the job long enough to have seen pranks and shenanigans that are downright hilarious. (Or evil, depending on how you look at it). One of his friends strategically placed empty rifle shells in the bushes at Dealey Plaza in downtown Dallas (the tourist site where JFK was shot). It wouldn’t take long until someone poked around and excitedly demanded to a local police officer that they had solved the assassination of JFK.

I picked his brain for a few minutes about his work on the Dallas Police force. He talked about the days chasing fugitives and working on a Tactical Squad. He said the most fun he ever had on the job was running down people with felony warrants and hauling their butts to jail. I am not going to lie, that sounded pretty exciting compared to my line of work. I suddenly wished we could pull down the projector screen and watch a movie reel of HIS shift on the job. I told him I would love to do a Ride-along and experience a day in the life of a cop. He wrote down his branch where he was stationed and the number to call for a Cop-Ride-along. (Even though anybody can apply for a Ride-along, I felt privileged that I had a personal referral from a decorated Police Officer.)

A surprise came a few days later when someone gently placed a vase of flowers on the top of my desk. Luckily the phone call I was on was just ending (terrible timing), and my mind reeled about whom the flowers could be from. My co-worker gasped because she thought she might have missed my birthday. Or my anniversary? I cupped my hands over my mouth when the call ended, shocked. The card read, "Thank you for your help. I couldn’t have done it without you. – Rector" What? Flowers from a client? Was this legal? My co-workers laughed and applauded, as this was a first in the office. I blushed and couldn’t wait to take them home to show my husband. He wouldn’t mind, right? (No, he didn’t.)

Rector weaseled his way into my heart pretty easily. His kindness was always bursting, with little on my end to deserve it. He respects and holds others higher than himself at all times. He has friends in high places, friends in low places and everywhere in between. He spent 33 full years on the job and retired with honors. Everyday he was laying his life on the line for the city of Dallas, on the streets doing dangerous work.  I looked forward to seeing his name on my desk and eventually in one of the investments that paid out and gave him a decent chunk of cash. I was truly thrilled for him.

One time I was having trouble getting a hold of him and received an email from his broker. He broke the news to me that Rector’s wife had just passed away from cancer. It was so sudden that she was sick for 3 weeks, diagnosed, and died 2 short weeks later. I ached inside and reached out to him. I contacted the investment to hold his position because of extenuating family circumstances. I waited. I said a prayer for him. I couldn’t begin to imagine the devastation he must be going through.

I saw him soon after around Christmas time and he brought me a gorgeous orchid plant. I accepted it with a heavy heart and hugged him. The holidays for him this year would be so very different. Cold. Quiet. Lonely. Out of all the friends Rector has in his world, he just lost his very best one.

Since those days, we have seen each other a few times. When we left Dallas, I told him that I would always remember him. He had the type of personality that reached and touched you in a very personal way. He could make you laugh in a heartbeat, but in the same conversation speak into your life in such a positive and inspiring way. Rector is a crazy uncle mixed with a tender-hearted friend. His compassion has reached to so many people that I am sure I won’t be the last to write about this man. He’s a hero. He’s a blessing. He is someone I hope to meet up with again, and surely someone I will never ever forget.

MIA: Missionaries In Action

           I felt like I was in a foreign country. Ever since I walked in I soaked up the sights, sounds, language, culture and everything about these beautiful Brazilians. Latino-sounding music blasted from the speakers making conversation impossible. A band with accordions and singers lined the front of the stage. Stage right, there was a man dancing. The designated dancer, I suppose, who was hired to set the atmosphere for the evening. He was having a blast, and it was rubbing off on me. The white tables and chairs were tightly packed and all the families had brought their own food and drinks. I munched on an egg roll and gazed curiously toward the middle. All the teachers in matching t-shirts were guiding little kids around.  It was almost our turn to watch.

I hurried to scrunch up close to the rope as the music thundered on. My eyes peeked over others in search of a special little girl. Her classmates filed on ahead of her, and I saw the familiar bright yellow skirts and gorgeous blue tops. I saw curly brown hair tied up in precious pigtails and faces dotted with fake freckles. I heard Portuguese all around among the children and their parents. Suddenly, blonde hair appeared from amidst the Brazilians, and her milky skin shone bright under the lights. Her smile was almost as big as the blue bow in her hair when she saw her Daddy. She waved enthusiastically, unable to contain her excitement. The band on stage behind them took a brief pause as the kindergarteners lined up in rows. A new song began, and tears of pride slowly welled up in my eyes. Evelyn danced and sang her little heart out that night. She laughed and smiled for pictures, then repeated the performance on the car ride home and over the next few days.

I am amazed at the way Evelyn adapts to a life in Brazil. One second I am playing in the sandbox with her speaking English, and the next she is rattling off in Portuguese to her friends and to adults. She doesn’t stop for a second, but converts her thoughts and her words directly into another language. Sarah said that when she turned 5 years old, she hadn’t spoken much Portuguese at all. As soon as she was immersed in “Conviver”, her Brazilian public school, she was fluent within 2-3 months. All that Portuguese had been welling up inside her for years, and Sarah knew it was just a matter of time for Evie to start speaking like a natural. She was right.

What is it like to raise your family in a foreign country? What parts of life remain the same as if you were in the States, and which parts are drastically different? For David and Sarah Carrel, I venture to say that raising their kids in Brazil has been a positive, and somewhat “normal” experience for the whole family. Diving into the day-to-day with them was eye opening, humbling and thrilling. We came back to America feeling blessed in multiple ways.

David has always been someone that I deeply look up to. His drive to work hard, reach people and achieve great things is admirable. He truly is like David from the Bible because he does NOT give up when faced with obstacles. My greatest privilege was watching David teach Brazilians how to play American football.  These natives grew up with soccer without much exposure to American Football, so this is new and exciting for them. The whole team can’t afford equipment yet, so only a few of the guys have their own shoulder pads and helmets. They run routes, joke around with each other and love the Hail Mary passes. When a touchdown is scored in scrimmage, it feels like a bomb went off. The guys are thrilled that the play worked and they whoop and holler for a few minutes. David sometimes plays quarterback at practice, and does a phenomenal job. He is quick and when he takes off running, the whole army of defense races to tackle him. His tattered college t-shirt lives on, but not for long.

He has a passion to reach people, and he always finds a way to relate to someone and convince them to attend one of his events. I love his smile and the way he jokes with the Brazilians. He is not afraid to do whatever it takes to get on their level and make a friend. I watched him eat traditional “Buxada” which is also known as cow intestines. He had a stomachache that afternoon, but he was willing to give it a try! (Gross). He spends hours per week teaching English in a local school. He drills those kids with questions, but makes them laugh and enjoy the journey. To them it’s school, to David, it can feel like school too… but he goes through curriculum even when he doesn’t always agree with it. He does whatever it takes to have a chance to meet and reach people. He is in a new territory and will try anything. No idea is too big or too small.

Sarah takes care of business like a professional. We drove into town one morning and I joined her on her errands. She bought foam for window seats, negotiated prices, and covered the entire grocery store in seconds, all the while planning each meal for the week in her head. I had trouble keeping up with the woman! I felt like she ran the town and I should have been groveling at her feet. Portuguese flowed naturally and without hesitation or question from the Brazilians. She plans play-dates for her friends and their kids, and she runs nursery in their home on Sunday nights for Bible Study. My greatest joy was watching her translate “Only a boy named David” into Portuguese on the fly. We sang it in English first, and then the little Brazilian girl attending asked to sing it in Portuguese. Sarah racked her brain for each phrase. She looked at me puzzled, “There is no word in Portuguese for ‘round and round!” She laughed and then made it work somehow. The kids loved it! Her family is her number one priority, and she does not let them down. Fresh fruits and juice, homemade desserts, and big hearty meals are at their fingertips. She has taught her girls how to help her in the kitchen, and Evie’s homemade Lemonade is on the weekly menu in their house! Impressive.

David and Sarah overcome cultural barriers on a daily basis. Faucet water is unsafe, and purified water is a luxury. Everything involving water involves careful planning and thinking because they live in a desert area. Brazilians desire to practice English, so their ears must be trained to hear the Brazilians and then respond in a way that they would understand. Pronunciation is hugely important and often can interrupt a somewhat decent conversation. David and Sarah constantly have to be translating in their minds so that they can communicate clearly with their friends and neighbors. They have to be patient as they pray for God to move through the hearts of the Brazilians they are trying to reach. They literally have to be patient because Brazilians operate on a more “leisurely” view of time and scheduling. They set boundaries for their family and spend hours a day cultivating a deep relationship with each of their little girls. David’s bedtime Bible stories are precious, and so are Evie’s questions afterwards. Anna Claire loves the company in her home, and gladly gives out hugs and kisses to everyone in attendance. They are blessed little girls.

David and Sarah may be missionaries, but they raise their kids too. They have challenges as they are on different soil and immersed in another language. They give up the comfort of family close by so that they can grow the family of God. They work hard at their jobs, just like us. They snuggle up, pop popcorn and watch movies on a Friday night. They giggle at the dinner table and beg their children to finish their food. They potty train and read books over and over. They patiently help their children with their homework in a different language. They fight for what they believe in and they do not give up easily.

They make me PROUD.

Related Post: A blink of an eye: My short stint in the Amazon

A blink of an eye: My short stint in the Amazon

Piled on the living room floor were several photo albums filled with exciting and mysterious memories. My mom had painstakingly taken the pictures, storing them forever in burgundy and dark blue albums for her kids to rifle through. I wonder if she ever became curious about the way we would remember our time in Brazil. Dad and Mom took all seven of us kids (and a teacher) with them to Santo Antonio do Ica in 1993 for a two month long trip. Dad’s medical skills were needed in the local hospital, and his heart felt the tug to bring his family on a missions trip. Well, a long missions trip. A couple years later in 1996-1997, six of us kids went back to the same area for six months.

1993 Trip- Left to Right: Kim, Jennifer, Mom, Dad holding Jeff, Shawn, Dan

Joe, David, Philip 

As an 7 year old, my blonde hair was stringy, my personality wild, and my mind open. Between the plane rides, overnight boat rides, and a plank we had to walk across to arrive on land, the voyage to South America was long and tiring. As soon as we settled in a house near the jungle by the Amazon River, my dad got right to work in the local hospital. We threw ourselves into the local church with the help of missionaries already on-site. Mom homeschooled us kids during the mornings, and we eagerly explored our temporary home.

I soon realized that Brazil was nothing like America. The people were dark skinned and gorgeous. The tiny houses were mostly on stilts, and had tin roofs that seemed to ROAR when the heavy rains came. Soccer ruled the country, and the people worshipped the game. The juicy Jambo (similar to an apple) soon became a favorite fruit. We watched in amazement as locals climbed the trees to gather food for their families. A huge grilled fish graced our table for dinner—with the head still on it. It was Tambaki, and our Brazilian maid had worked hard all afternoon perfecting the fish. Piranhas lurked in the brown Amazon river, and we heard stories of vicious injuries about my Dad’s hospital patients. (That didn’t stop my brother Philip and me from swimming in the water one afternoon). How do you get used to living in a place where the natives cut grass with a hand machete? Or where we only had powdered milk for cooking and drinking? Or where having a pet parrot is normal? (Ours was named Yoda, and we kept it in a sunroom connected to our house.)

Adventures are a little different in a foreign country. We walked a beaten path in the jungle to a nearby swimming hole that was a clean water source. We spent hours with other Brazilians, having the time of our lives and enjoying a short relief from the relentless heat and humidity. My brothers thoroughly enjoyed the daily run-in with the beasts of the field. Frogs croaked loudly as we ventured into the jungle. Various types of poisonous and non-poisonous nakes slithered in and out of our yard, and they often lay dead on the road. We adopted puppies and affectionately named them “Little Guy” and “Little Girl.” Skinny cows and chickens lined the streets. Animals wandered in and around the natives’ homes and left their mark everywhere you tried to step. Mice at one point made their home in our attic, but few survived. Spiders, tarantulas, and even a rhinoceros beetle were objects of wonder. The fact that we all made it back home safely is a miracle in itself, considering the curiosity and fearlessness of my brothers.

Rook became a favorite card game in our new home. Even at a young age, I learned to play and enjoy the strategy and comradery with my family. Once my little brother Jeff and I were teammates in a tournament held in our packed out house. We played, we fought hard, and we achieved dead last place. The variety of prizes that night was outstanding, but Jeff and I came out with a win. We got our favorite suckers and we were the happiest ones at the party!

The language barrier didn’t stop me from making as many friends as I possibly could. Their names were strange and our friendship just as unique. Nazima, Nazilane, Marivalda, and my “boyfriend”- Ronaldo. I had a massive crush on that boy, and everybody knew it. We played Red Rover in the street, and ran around incessantly in our backyard, laughing and tagging each other. They invited me to their houses to meet their families, and I was shocked at the size of each tiny room we walked through. I learned words in Portuguese, and we played like best friends. I grew to love them and saying goodbye was heart-wrenching.

Our next door neighbors were a missionary family that had served in Brazil long before we arrived. Tom and Beth Peace were dedicated, old school and so immersed in Brazil they could have fooled me if they told me they were actually Brazilian. They raised their four kids in the Amazon, and we enjoyed working with them and two of their grown kids: Lloyd and Philip. Phillip married a Brazilian native named Gecilia. She was beautiful, and my little brother Jeff frequently left our house early in the morning to go next door and play Go-fish with her. It was nothing less than adorable, and Gecilia cherished those precious moments with him. Since Gecilia’s family was nearby, my older brothers got to know her brothers, Alfredo and Francisco. They all frequently played soccer together. And this wasn’t just any backyard kick around. The boys were dead serious, competitive, and clad in spikey cleats. Phillip Peace’s body was built like a truck, and the grown man sweat like a pig. I consciously avoided the massive force of nature as he sprinted down the field, his muscular thighs gleaming and the lethal look of determination on his face. I loved playing soccer and running the field with everyone else, but he scared me to death. Some games were best left alone to the big boys.

Occasionally my mind jogs back to the moments I spent in Brazil. When I smell fresh bread, sometimes my memory plays tricks on me, and it smells like the bakery where we bought the most heavenly tasting bread daily. I see a green and yellow Brazil flag, and my heart skips a beat. I see colorful hammocks and smile at the three that hung in our basement for years after we returned home. The creak of the metal hooks as I sway back and forth rings in my ears. I spent hours in those hammocks. For some reason, when I smell a fire or gas burning, I feel like we are back in the jungle. The moment passes, but the emotions are still there. The Amazon is a treacherous and dangerous place to live, but as a family, we were able to enjoy our time there. I take great pride in the special memories that we all have and am deeply grateful for the twice-in-a-lifetime opportunity we had to live in the Amazon!  

Related Post: MIA: Missionaries In Action

A Granddaughter's Heart

Spring break from college was barely underway, and I found myself driving to a hospital downtown. I quickly parked the family car on a street near the entrance and headed upstairs to be with everyone. My parents got a parking ticket in the mail later, because I wasn’t really allowed to park there. My lack of concern and attention at the moment was overshadowed by my worry for the man lying in the hospital bed. I walked in and blinked in surprise. Why were there so many people? Purses and belongings were everywhere, like the room had become a second home. A tall, off-white sheet hung from the ceiling splitting the room in half, and the lighting was terrible. So dark. Doctors and nurses scurried around. My parents were in the room, but it was my aunt who held me tight and told me the truth. She gingerly touched my face in both of her hands and relayed the shocking information that broke my young heart. Her eyes welled up as she said the very words to me that I feared the most. "Your Grandpa. He's not going to make it."

I found out that my grandpa was sick near the end of the fall semester of my junior year of college. I was about to walk into my Human Growth and Development class when my mom called my cell phone. She told me Grandpa had been taken by ambulance to the hospital, but they didn’t know how severe it was at the time. Kevin was by my side when I heard the news, and he held me for a few moments before I walked into class by myself. Coincidentally, my professor was prepared that day to lecture on Death and Dying. The title of the in-class reflection essay was, “If you had the chance to show a loved one how you really felt before they passed away, what would you do?” I wrote about the shocking news I had just heard and how I felt. I pushed my hair to the side and laid my head down on my extended left arm. I reflected, wrote slowly, and cried. I didn’t fear the worst, but I was suddenly very aware of the possibility. I hated the timing and prayed for strength to get through until I was home.

That essay turned out to be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for me. I brainstormed about a very special Christmas present for my grandparents. For the next month, I compiled several memories from all of my siblings and cousins and pasted them in a large frame. I loved overseeing the project, because I read every single note from each person. Each memory they described made me smile. I could relate to most memories, but some talked about memories they had with Grandpa before I was even born. I felt like I had opened a treasure chest and got to explore the contents before giving it to its rightful owner. The look on Grandma’s face when she opened the present was precious. We did it. We had our chance to say what we wanted to say to our grandpa, because we thought it might be his last Christmas. We were right.

Somehow learning about Grandpa’s illness around Christmastime helped us cope. On my Mom’s side of the family, Christmas was always a big deal to us, because it brought all of the cousins together. Grandpa and Grandma’s house held all of us comfortably, and that is a big deal. Between four daughters, their husbands, and over 20 grandkids, we still somehow had room to roam. Their house felt like a mansion to the kids, and there was always somewhere the girls could sneak off to play games and talk. More often than not, the boys and girls played game after game of Monopoly or Clue, teasing and laughing the whole time. Soon we would end up wrestling each other and running around the house. (If we ran through the kitchen, the adults would scold us and smack our bottoms as we ran by!) Christmas time was really “shenanigan time” with the cousins and we ate it up. Our faces grew beet red from all the energy we were expending, and the adults grew tired of our rowdiness pretty quickly. Time for presents came around, and we all crammed into the living room. Grandpa and Grandma had set up a gorgeous Christmas tree with dozens of presents. We anxiously sat around and listened intently as Grandpa boomed out name after name. He wore his goofy Santa hat and crawled around on his hands and knees to hand out presents. One year my parents gave out hammocks from Brazil, and grandkids piled in with big grins on their faces. Grandpa and the uncles took turns swinging the hammocks with their bare hands, and the giggles were incessant. The pictures that Christmas were priceless. No one wanted those Christmases to end.

Back to the the awful day in the hospital room. It didn’t seem real. My whole body froze and then shook as if I had a fever. My hair stuck to my face, and I went through tissue after tissue. I waited and waited to speak to my grandpa, because so many people were around. I didn’t know that my conversation with him would be the last genuine time I had with the strong Grandpa I knew and loved my whole life. I didn’t know that this was goodbye.

I hesitated but pulled up a chair next to his bed. Of course, there were wires everywhere and he was in an ugly hospital gown. His belly was filled with fluid, and he was so uncomfortable. But he looked at me and talked to me like we always talked. He called me Kimberly. We held hands, and I didn’t really know what to say. He just kept shaking his head, like he couldn’t believe this was happening to him. He didn’t like the idea of a disease eating away at him, piece by piece.  Half of his mouth drooped from a case of Bells-Palsy he once had. His smile was permanently halved, and we loved it that way. I didn’t see him smile on that hospital bed. He sat up the best he could, and he still had strength to speak with his grand-daughter so carefully. He didn’t like to see me so sad. I left bits of my young heart on that hospital bed. My eyes stared deep into his and I told him that I didn’t want to say goodbye. I told him that I didn’t want this to happen. I told him how much I loved him. He shook his head again and said my name. He loved me right back. He watched me grow up. From a blonde, spunky little girl to a grown woman. He didn’t want to say goodbye, either. I hugged him about 10 times. Each time, I didn’t want it to be the last. I thought it might, so I just hugged him again. I didn’t want to leave him. His strong arms embraced me, and we said our parting words. I forced myself to walk away and left the hospital with a devastating reality shock.

Cornelius “Casey” Staal, passed away in his home two months later on May 31st, 2009. It was the week after the observed Memorial Day.

To be honest, I had no idea that my grandpa’s death was going to affect me the way that it did. We have lived in Texas since 2011, and I can’t even tell you the number of times I have thought about him deeply. I have laid in bed, remembering the man he was to me, and my heart beats slowly and sadly. I didn’t know how much he truly meant to me until I had to say goodbye to him forever. I get flashbacks of moments on the couch with him at our house in Michigan. He wrapped his arm around my shoulders and held me so tight that I could smell his coffee breath. He would dive into a speech for twenty minutes about the intricacies of his watch or explain to me the details about working in a meat-processing facility. I remembered a picture of him wearing a bloody apron and wondered how anyone could enjoy working in a slaughterhouse. I didn’t really mind what we talked about, because we were snuggled up together. When I was held by such a warm and yet powerful man, I felt intense love and care. He always brought pure joy to all of his grandkids when we showed up at his house. Snowmobile rides in the winter were wild, and the piles he had plowed in his yard could have been illegal. He should have patented some of his inventions, too. He cut large barrels in half, put wood on the sides to stabilize it, and hooked up the homemade sled to the back of the snowmobile. He made a teeter totter and massive tire swings in the backyard. I can still remember the smell of the big gray tire swing and the thrill of soaring through the air. He had a brilliant, imaginative mind. He could be so tough on us, too, but I knew he always meant well. He had my highest respect and reverent fear. There is a reason why his name “Casey” lives on in several of the families on my mom’s side. Every time he hugged me so tight, he squeezed a part of himself into me. It has never left, and I am never letting it go.