I am > Fire

The youtube video includes the author reading the article, as well as a quick bonus video of Kris Kruse writing out a special message that testifies to his recovery. 

I am > Fire

The sun rays filter through the car window, and Kris Kruse and his partners are on patrol in beautiful Lake County, Florida. It is July of 2015 and Kris has just started touring on duty as a police officer. He has always looked forward to a career in law enforcement, and now it is official. He wears the badge. His radio crackles with calls. He is living out his training on a daily basis, his future spread before him like open waters ready to be explored.

But he barely made it through 8 months of his new career when a backyard bonfire accident seared his skin, nerves, muscle and tissue on 69% of his young 21 year old body. The explosion on Superbowl Sunday 2016 caught him by surprise, and the flames licked at him for seconds that felt like eternity. He fought the flames desperately, while his friends rushed to help him. Normality would take a backseat for several months, while he underwent 11 surgeries and lived at the hospital for 97 days, mostly in ICU. His parents would sit by his bedside, crying over their once vibrant son wrapped in bandages and given a grim diagnosis.

“I was trapped inside for hours and days, unable to walk or move. Because I am naturally an outdoors person, this drove me nuts. I eventually didn’t even watch TV. If someone was in the room, we would talk. But I mostly just laid there on the bed.” Staring. Waiting. Wondering. What comes next?

He worked hard to fight deadly infections, obeying the nurses and praying for the skin grafts to set well as his body started to heal at snail pace. He then had to relearn how to grip a fork, breathe normally and bravely stand with a walker. He began to practice small steps. Except that with his progress came interrupting surgeries that set him back again. The daily process was grueling, but he clung pitbull-like to hope.

“I was never suicidal. I have always had a strong spirit, and when things got tough, I knew I just had to keep moving on. I had to learn to walk several times, cramming 22 years of growing into 5 months. My long term goals felt like a million miles away. So I turned my eyes to short term goals: Cut a steak, bend my fingers, walk without a walker.”

The support system from outside those grim hospital walls was unreal. His Bravo Squad from the police force brought in a framed group picture that compelled him daily to fight hard. That was his team. His men. His supporters. He didn’t want to let them down and was determined to push through, so he could join them again soon. Several police departments made banners, and his room was bursting at the seams with decorations, well-wishes and colorful encouragement. Friends and strangers from all over the world rallied together, KRIS STRONG, willing him to fight tough. He received a special letter from a family he had helped back when he was first starting out as a police officer and it is one of his most precious pieces of mail. When the family’s home was broken into, Kris was one of the officers to respond. The alarm had been tripped and the front door was mysteriously hanging open. Even after clearing the house of any danger, the parents and two small boys were visibly shaken. Kris stayed behind with another officer and took a few extra minutes to walk through the house again with the two boys in tow. He encouraged them to keep their parents and family safe. Kris handed out Junior Police stickers for the little boys, and they beamed as they each wore their badge of honor. Kris gave them peace of mind as well as a mission. Strong words of encouragement from families like this renewed Kris’ passion for the job and gave him continual motivation to keep working hard to get out of the hospital.

Kris pushed himself daily to walk those extra few steps during his physical therapy. When his body screamed at him to stop running it into a brick wall, he lay back down and thought, “If not today, tomorrow.” Kris was resilient. Tenacious. Refusing to give up.

I am > Fire. This is Kris’ mantra, written with strength by a complete stranger. Kris read this phrase from a letter he received while still in the hospital, and the powerful phrase describes his battle perfectly. Kris, literally surviving fire, has come out on the other side an overcomer. He can look back and say, “Wow- fire did not defeat me. I am greater than fire.”

Looking toward the future doesn’t scare him. He amazingly seems unaffected by the accident, still extremely focused on his career. “My goals and dreams haven’t changed. I want to serve on the Police Force for at least 20 years and retire with honors.” He wants to help significantly with the Explorer program, something that he was a part of as a teenager. He dreams of helping other teens train to be law enforcement officers, maybe getting the program running going in other counties.

He knows that it will take a while but wants to get back on the streets, patrolling and providing security for his city. He loves being the one to answer a person’s last call of desperation. While they are in their worst moments on a fierce search for help, he can be their answer. Kris sees being a police officer as a great way to give back to the community, and he enjoys watching civilians transform from a place of desperation into something positive. As of October 31^st he is back at the Police Station working again.

A couple weeks ago, Kris shot his gun at the range for the first time since the accident. He was still sensitive from all of the nerve damage and re-growth in his hands. But the crack of the gun and the familiar blast put a huge smile on his face. He shed his humble spirit for just a moment, grinning with pride at the accuracy of his shots. “I still got it.”

Yes, Kris you do.  

**This article was featured as the GRIT Spotlight for the local non-profit foundation AaronStrong. Kris Kruse is an amazing example of GRIT- Growth, Resilience, Initiative and Tenacity, everything that the AaronStrong Foundation represents. 

Read more at http://www.beaaronstrong.com/grit-spotlight

I Would Miss You

      

       If you weren’t here and I was alone- I’d miss a thousand things that you do, that you are. Some of the things that I married you for- but other things that I didn’t know until you became my roommate. My forever roommate.

       I would miss the way you live vicariously through music. The high notes that make your head tilt sideways and the crescendos that make you drum your fingers, harmonizing with the men that have already recorded the song in their studio.

       I would miss your daddy-like care for all the animals. They would be hopeless without you and I would have to disperse them to homes. I don’t know how to change the turtles’ filters, and I always sneeze when I pass out hay to the bunnies. I would miss hearing you talk aloud when you pull a handful of hay out of the bag to stuff in their trays. The way you roll your eyes and huff at them to get out of your way as they are hopping anxiously around your ankles- hungry and always impatient. I would miss you peeking out the window over the sink, taking pictures of the bunnies cuddling or Toby sprawled out basking in the sun.

       I would miss the way you drive slower than me- more cautious, with the music hardly turned up past 10. And when you adjust the mirror higher and mutter, “Shorty.” I would miss the few times I have seen you spurt in hostile remarks at the bikers on the road. How you suddenly care about tax-dollars for bike paths when you are tailing an intense road biker- hunched down and oblivious of our car creeping forward.

       I would miss calling you in quick desperation at the grocery store when I forget my pin number to my debit card or at the bank when the ATM doesn’t like me and I can’t seem to figure out how to work the stupid machine. I would miss your watch over all things bill-paying. If you weren’t here I would have to call the mortgage dude and the electric company and figure out the car payment. I wouldn’t know where to start.

       I would miss Saturday mornings with you. How you always have a hankering for pancakes or muffins or eggs and bacon. I am okay with a bowl of cereal like every other day but your stomach knows the extra time warrants a bigger breakfast. Then you skip lunch.

       I would miss your clean shaven, soft face on Wednesdays and Sundays. The way your skin retains your aftershave and my fingers feel its moisture. I would miss rubbing your head in passing, peeking at the neckline knowing it was me who buzzed the back after you gave yourself your monthly haircut. I would miss hearing you call out “Wife” and you hand me the heavy black razor. It is heavy, shaking and I calculate the neckline and slice a clean line across the bottom.  I try to keep it straight but know you’ll never actually see my 30 second handiwork. I would miss the slightly hairy sink and floor for the following days until I clean the bathroom.

       I would miss your overall cleanliness compared to the rascally-brothers I grew up with. Like the way that you fold your shirt immediately instead of tossing it around. Or clean up crumbs right behind me as I eat in the kitchen. Or host an absolutely astounded face when you push the Swiffer around to collect the dust that was hiding in the corners after I have already swept. “That’s amazing!”

       I would miss your short texts. The way you can type a dissertation as a grammarian but then carelessly use “u” and “ur” in text messages. The way you respond “k”. The way you attempt to be enthusiastic and encouraging by adding an exclamation mark. I always smile because I know that while it’s not normal for you, you are making an effort for me.

       I would miss your excellent communication with me. The way we plan for dinner, talk about meeting for events or layout our Saturday agenda. And if I am ever flustered about what to do, I can rely on you to calmly make a logical decision for me. How do you do that so easily? I would miss the way you listen carefully to me and I rarely have to ask for anything twice. Like the time I was driving back from work in Orlando and needed clothes for Ultimate Frisbee. You met me at the park; bag in hand with every single thing I asked for- down to the hair tie and headband.

       Of course with sports, I would miss your t-shirt and shorts-clad self running around with those arms wagging at your side. I would miss passing to you- feeling trust in you as a teammate. I would miss our natural instinct together, how we can score with no look passes or by timing the sprint exactly perfect into the wide open field. The way you shout instructions to me as I run toward the airborn frisbee, “Left!!” and your guidance helps me. I would miss your amazing long-arm shots down the field where the Frisbee floats gently into the hands of the receiver for the touchdown. I would miss the grim look on your face when your team is down and the fierce determination that follows- the way you sprint forward on offense and guard mercilessly on defense. The way you capitalize on a turnover and line up the throw into the end zone for the win. Nothing gets in your way and the only reason I am angry is if you aren’t on my team.

       I would miss your giddy morning face and your dreary evening face. Your smile at my antics and your sarcasm and wit when I walk right into an opportunity for you to tease me. Your laugh. Your big blue eyes that I look into while we talk, still amazed after all these years at the way they shine and glimmer and pair perfectly with your skin tone and hair color.

       I would miss terribly the scent that you create by the mid-afternoon. When your deodorant wears down and pairs with the sweet smell of your skin and light sweat from the day. I would clutch your t-shirts and hang onto the scent as long as it would hang on to me.

       I would miss your hugs after a long day. How reliable you are. How honest you are, even though you bottle things up and I may not really understand how you are feeling. I would miss being one of the only ones you open up to when the time comes. The waiting through the silence and your stone-face, but then the sweet words and conversation we share as you translate your thoughts into words and sentences. I wait. And I listen. And I learn a little bit more of who you are and how I might try and love you better.

       I would so desperately miss your Bible lessons. The way you become Mr. Blabbermouth talking about DTS professors you listened to, articles you read or theology theories floating around. I would miss drilling you with questions to learn about the culture back in Biblical times or the original language. I would miss sitting in the audience under your study. Your powerpoints. Your lessons. Your silly introductions and convicting conclusions. I would miss the distinct privilege of being able to ask you more questions on the car ride home.

You are here with me today and I refuse to take you for granted. I don’t know how long I get you, but all these things and more; If you were gone, I would miss you.

Related: Kevin and Kim: Rewind to the Beginning

The Power of the Little Ones

 I crave the thrilling, adventurous feeling of traveling. I look forward to jumping out of the hum-drum routine and entering somebody else’s world for a few days. I love an open schedule in a different place with friends and family to catch up with. But my body hates leaving the comfortable ambience of home. Whenever I step foot in an airport with itinerary in hand, my stomach reaches up and grabs me by the throat. I feel the shakiness of needless anxiety and dread based on past experiences on planes. By the time I am sitting in row 21A, nausea and dizziness has crept over my body and I swallow it away, one second at a time. I cautiously feel around the seatback pocket for that stupid barf bag, just to avoid a sheer sense of panic. I hate how I feel. I pump my body full of medicine that temporarily relieves the anxiety, but I still feel like I am locked in a prison, claustrophobia wrapping its slimy arms around me and squeezing. I used to love to take off in the plane, listening to the beastly roar of the engines catapulting us into a sky reserved for us alone for a few hours. But instead I distract myself the best I can, all while counting down the minutes until I can appreciate survival when we finally touch down.

        My brother Dan and his wife Caroline live in New Hampshire with their three kids- Three-year-old twins Caleb and Lyla and chunky monkey Hudson, 5 months old. I ache to see them, and our text-versations proved hopeful. We decided maybe on the weekend of September 17 we could intersect our individual trips to Michigan. Tickets bought. Plans made. Then came a disappointing message from Dan that something came up and they couldn’t make it to Michigan until October. A twinge of sadness, a missed opportunity, but I appreciated the thoughtful effort anyway. We were all hoping to visit the newest Carrel babies together- birthed in July by Emily, my brother Joe’s wife. Selah and Maddox were now eight weeks old and drawing the attention of everyone. We all desperately longed to meet these precious twins.

        Kevin and I waltzed down the hall in the Grand Rapids airport into the embrace of familiar faces. Hugs and kisses at 1am. We chatted and soaked up the first few moments with long-distance family, where every word shared is a gleaming gem and every sight seen is a Welcome Home. The next day my bearded, wounded little brother Basura passed out hugs like candy and made plans for the day while limping around on one good knee. He didn’t start his new job at Starbucks until Thursday morning so we had an empty canvas Wednesday stretched before us. We crammed in the blue S-10 pickup that is somehow still running, and journeyed through country roads with the windows down.

        Emily opened the door and her Mama arms hugged me tight. Joe peeked in unexpectedly and we tiptoed into the house, not sure what to expect. Then I saw them. Two tiny bundled up creatures dressed in pajamas. Their eyes hid behind soft lids, lost in dreamy sleep. Their fingers pointed in different directions and legs scrunched up to their bellies. How impossibly small these adorable human beings are! I stared in utter amazement, gently caressing two skinny fingers with my giant adult hands. I was speechless. I had never before seen anything like this. Joe and Em smiled knowingly, reading my thoughts.

        Selah Ann and Maddox Douglas- 8 weeks old yet just barely over 6 lbs each. We sat around a relaxing living room with Pandora playing softly in the background and a cloudy Michigan day brimming outside. We talked about the NICU, the 32 week dilation and surprise labor, the shots of medicine that breathed double duty protection and development into their lungs. The scale that read 3 lbs and change, and the tubes and masks that clothed their innocent newborn faces. Kevin and I held bottles and patted their backs as their milk-drunk faces sunk lazily into the burp cloth. Emily taught me to swaddle and then I entered into the most peaceful and serene hours I have ever spent on this earth. Selah slept in my arms, nestled in her swaddle blanket and I stroked her earlobes the size and texture of a miniscule scrap of velvet fabric. I stared at her, counting the blonde hairs around her face and patting her cuddled-up butt with my free hand. She was never fazed. I moved her to the middle of my chest and rested my head on hers, wrapping my arms around her as if she was long lost and now found. I couldn’t imagine anything better and Em looked on in pure joy. “I don’t mind the exhaustion.” She said matter-of-factly. “We have waited so long to hold these babies, and we know they are miracles. I don’t take any second for granted.” I glanced at my brother, relaxing on the couch. Not one peep of complaining, not one shot of anger. 8 years of marriage. One beautiful adopted daughter. And a long awaited pregnancy that brought a tiny little girl and boy into the world. Joe and Emily were stretched and strained for years, yielding to God’s timing and not theirs. Their marriage, like a swimmer learning to hold his breath longer and longer underwater, was tested and proved strong. Their reliance on God intensified and blessings came in time. Kevin sat in the reclining chair wearing an oversized FHN sweatshirt from the Carrel closet, holding Maddox with a little help from a pillow. They had both mastered the art of relaxing. That night as I lay in bed, chilled by the breeze slipping in from the window, I had phantom feelings in my arms as if the babe still lay cuddled up and dreaming.

        The week went on and we enjoyed visits with friends at a Mexican restaurant with terribly slow service (¿Dónde está la camarera?), steaks on the grill and walks around the neighborhood. But every day I texted my sweet sister-in-law when I sensed a few hours available to help her. Over and over she immediately agreed, pouring out grace to us. She effortlessly displayed a humble, welcoming attitude in the aftermath of midnight feedings, 3 hour schedules and bottle-washing at the sink. Her friends and family walked through her doors and she shared her children compassionately and freely, as if she knew deep down that they were not her own. Her servant attitude warmed my heart like the flickering candle on the table. (Wafting away the stinky-rankness of Maddox’s digestive system). Joe would walk in at 4pm, his eyes glazed from the night’s sleeplessness paired with a long day of work. He sauntered over to pick up Maddox and bring him to the couch. Staring into his eyes, he invited me over. “Kim, come here and see Maddox. His eyes are wide open.” Joe was in wonder too.

        Dinner on Thursday night was a triple date with Joe and Em, Jeff and Elizabeth, and Kevin and I. We had the upstairs room at Grill One Eleven to ourselves, and we laughed and teased and talked about Netflix while devouring fancy burgers and sweet potato chips.

The next day, Kevin and Joe mowed the lawn at the house and ventured into the basement for woodworking and sanding lessons. Joe and Em’s little girl Lillie colored on a massive white poster board- sky brilliant with five different shades of blue. I smiled at the creativity in this house, all while cradling a zombie baby who couldn’t have been woken up with a tornado. Saturday stumbled upon us and we watched college football in the living room, soaking up the final moments with Selah and Maddox. We had taken pictures, heard their cries, listened to hiccups and watched curious eyes goggle around the room for hours. We had counted toes and held fingers, brushed cheeks and kissed foreheads.

The wonder never left me. I was awestruck. 

        My lips pressed their tiny selves one more time and we were out the door. Two heartbreaking hours later, I greet my grandmother in her big house; the only one I had ever known to take care of her and my beloved grandpa, gone and missed immensely. Each step I take in that special house evokes a terrible emotion that slams into my chest without warning. I hug her sweet frame and escape quickly, regretting that I didn’t spend more time with her, but knowing it was too late. My eyes waterfall in the car as we make our way to Round 2- Grandpa Carrel and his sweet wife. I am amazed at his sharpness and happy countenance. But it is all over for us. We have to leave, facing the fact that Michigan holds my family but I can’t. Kevin and I travel back to family-less Florida and he gives me the strength to realize that it’s going to be okay. He holds my hand and talks to me, listening to my hurts and my thoughts, no matter how pain-filled. I know he will take care of me.

        We boarded our Detroit to Orlando flight and my curiosity peaked when I walked past the cockpit. I figured my somber composure could use a pick-me-up. I asked to meet the pilot and was ushered into a tiny room that housed two relaxed pilots. I boldly introduced myself with a curious smile on my face. The pilot offered me his seat and captain hat and asked for my camera to take pictures. His giant hat nearly slid down my forehead and I grabbed the steering wheel for the picture. “What do you want to know?” The pilot inquired. My eyes floated around, seeing buttons and numbers and mass confusion. “How do you land when you can’t see?” They both talked pilot gibberish and flipped down a night-vision visor, displaying neon green numbers and lines. We talked about the movie, “Sully” and its associating books. I told them that I would leave them to their job, and thanked them as I scrambled out of the tiny house.

        Even with that pre-flight excitement, I knew we had 2 ½ hours of flight time and I was worried about making it through the whole flight without feeling miserable. With an hour to go, it hit me. The nausea and dizziness started slowly and crippled me once again. The row behind me was empty so I scrambled past my seat mate to lay down, a thin blanket wrapped around my shivering body. As I lay there, breathing methodically and determining to relax enough to make it through the end of the flight, I thought of the trip. The babies. My family. The tears in goodbye. Too many goodbyes. The months and years of separation that has become our normal. I cursed my frail body for making traveling so difficult and wondered when we would come back. The twins had no idea the spiritual impact they had on their young aunt, but I felt refreshed in a strange way that I didn’t expect.  It was a slice of heaven, a surprising feeling and even amidst the uncomfortable drama of traveling- so worth it.

It Is Well With My Soul: Horatio Spafford's Story

I turned the telegram over and through my worn hands one more time. The cursive handwriting on the thin white paper whispered softly but the written words cut deep into my bones. “Saved alone. What shall I do…(?)” I clung to the recent memory of my wife’s sweet face wishing me goodbye as she huddled our girls close in the November chill of Chicago. The thin suitcases packed with promise of relaxation with dear friends in Europe. In our rush we shared a simple kiss farewell after I promised to join them in just a few days. She nodded in agreement, anxious for a much needed vacation. I bent down and nestled Annie’s curls in my hair and brushed her cheek gently, urging her to obey her mother in all things and help with the younger ones. She obliged politely as always and I believed her. I turned to my middle two girls, Maggie and Bessie. They still had cracker crumbs on their soft cheeks so I button tapped their noses and kissed their foreheads. Baby Tanetta sucked innocently on two fingers and welcomed my tickle in the secret crevices of her neck. Her giggles were the last peep I heard from my daughters as they were whisked away. My beautiful wife Anna boarded the Ville de Havre, three girls trotting behind her and one in her crowded arms. I turned on my heels, stuffed my hands in my jacket and headed to my office. As soon as my business matters were resolved I could board a ship just steps behind them.

But several days later I sat lonely on a thin cotton bed in the underbelly of a ship that indeed carried me toward Europe, but on terms I never agreed to. The telegram was the only piece of my family that I could hold onto. In the midst of the journey, the Ville de Havre had collided with another ship, sinking in 12 minutes. My wife was discovered unconscious on a piece of wood. She was one of the few survivors.

I thought of Anna and my intentions to bring peace and healing to our family with our long overdue trip to Europe. She so deserved time away from the busy life she led at home in Chicago, and the painful memories that surrounded her at every turn. When we buried our young son just a few years before, a beautiful glimmer disappeared from my wife’s eyes. I watched her raise our girls with composure during the day and then breath-taking sadness overcame her as night fell. We held each other close and grieved together. I poured myself into my work as a lawyer, determined to provide for my family. I was heavily invested in properties along the coast of Lake Michigan until the Great Chicago Fire burned my dreams and plans in mere hours. The flames licked our city and left thousands homeless. The fire seared me financially, but in the wake of our personal tragedy, I felt stripped of hope to give my wife. Through it all, she clung to me. I begged God to give me strength when I had none, and I held my advisors’ and friends’ words close to my heart as we struggled along. Traveling to Europe would bring us great encouragement and much needed rest. I couldn’t wait to show my girls all that I loved in Great Britain. But the truth punched me in the gut and I struggled to believe its awful message. The girls weren’t with my wife. They weren’t with me. Anna was saved alone and the girls were gone. I clutched the note to my chest, afraid my heart would stop beating out of sheer shock. My tears were stubborn, as if they needed more proof before they would fall down my face.

I heard a sharp rap on the cabin door and a familiar face spoke softly. “The captain would like to see you.” He led me down the hall toward the biting cold of the deck and a misty rain stung into my skin. The captain laid his hand on my back, leading me to the edge of the ship. He patted my jacket in sympathy and glanced over while I peered into the deep waters. “I don’t know how to make this any easier, but you deserve to know.” I was numb to his words so they bounced off me like a ping on a glass, but I heard them anyway. “According to the coordinates, we are now passing over the sunken ship Ville de Havre. May your daughters rest in peace, Mr. Spafford. My deepest condolences.” I turned my head to nod politely but no words released. My eyes turned back to the waves. The pale sun was reaching down below the dark clouds to kiss the Atlantic Ocean and drip under the surface for the night. The roar of the engine dulled behind me and I looked into the mirror image of the water. This water. The vast ocean seemed too big to hold my precious little girls, and the ocean didn’t care for them and nurture their innocent hearts like I did. The ocean allowed them to slip beneath and drift to the bottom unnoticed. My heart tore and I thought of my daughters all alone, losing the strength to stay above water. I imagined their flailing and gasps for breath. The helplessness they felt. Their dresses quietly enveloped them and the deep waters received their precious tiny bodies into its grip. I stretched my hand out to the ocean in attempt to touch them and the tears finally came. My Maggie, my Bessie, my Annie, my baby Tanetta. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry you had to endure that…” I choked on my whispered thoughts and hurt more in that moment than I ever had in my whole life. My baby girls suffered only for a moment, but I felt as their father; it was a moment too long.

I leaned on the rail of the ship for so long that the rain iced itself to my jacket and I had to pry myself away. It was dark. Everyone was tucked below, safe and warm but I couldn’t bear to leave the sea just yet. My eyes were reddened and sore from my grief-filled sobs and the heaviness remained strong on my chest like an immense weight. The shock of the news over the last few days tortured me but I didn’t have a chance to confront the truth yet. Here on this deck, my grief stood up to fight me and I fought back hard. The wind in my sails had deflated and I stood an empty man. I shuffled my feet and looked toward the lower deck, struggling with the thought to stay or go. My fingers were numbing and I knew it would be best to try and rest in my bunk for a few hours. I glanced back at the still waters and held my cold fingers to my lips, setting a kiss free into the darkness. “Goodbye my little cherubs. Papa loves you.”

The next morning came upon me as light streamed into my bunk area and I heard men’s feet scurrying about. I was cocooned in a dry jacket and multiple blankets. I rubbed my eyes and recalled the night before. My fingers pumped with blood and I felt warm as I tucked the blanket underneath my arms and sat up against the wall. Someone popped their head into the tiny room and asked if I would care for some tea. As I held the tin cup, I stared at the ugliness of the walls and wondered why I had woken up with an enormously different feeling than what I had the night before as I collapsed into sleep. My chest was light and my mind clear and sharp. It was if the dense burden I lugged around was taken from my arms and thrown into the sea. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes to pray. “Father, you give peace. I am your servant and a servant mustn’t question the master. The clay must submit to the potter.” I paused, knowing what I was saying and aware of whom I was submitting my will to. A calm relief washed over me as I let go of myself and melted into the arms of the Almighty God whose strength I gathered and held onto tightly. I grabbed a loose paper from my belongings and began to scrawl words that flowed from my thoughts. I thought of Anna and our years before the bottom fell from under our safe and comfortable life together. I thought of our little boy’s limp body cradled in our arms collecting our fallen tears on his clothes. I thought of the paperwork I compiled after losing my investment and the times I had to walk through the door of our home with nothing to bring to my family. I thought of my smiling girls and their infectious giggles. I thought of our simple meal times together and our evenings by the fireplace. I thought of the telegram that crushed me into a thousand little pieces. I reached into my pocket and unfolded it to peer at the words once again. I thought of my dear Anna and how our relationship tested with fire will prove to be gold. I thought of my evening on the deck and how I pained but welcomed the chance to kiss my sweet girls goodbye.

Through it all, my Lord has been faithful. And through it all I say, it is well with my soul.

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

For further information on this historical event:

https://www.loc.gov/resource/mamcol.011/

http://staugustine.com/living/religion/2014-10-16/story-behind-song-it-well-my-soul#.V65HUigrLIU

https://www.loc.gov/exhibits/americancolony/amcolony-family.html

Japan Part 1: Math is Universal

       My high school split after freshman year. Right down the middle. The administration called us all to the auditorium and gave our class a choice to make. Stay or go. They built a new high school and our class could make history as the first graduating class in 2007. My impulse was to stay. My five older brothers walked these halls for years before me and I wanted to continue the Carrel Family legacy at Forest Hills Northern. My group of friends had finally accepted me after I had worked so hard to wiggle my way into their right knit circle. The disappointment came when they abruptly announced they were all leaving. As a fidgety freshmen jumping back into public school after attending a charter school, I was grateful for these new friends. But a tidal wave of excitement took them away to the new school, and I was left alone. I opened an empty locker to begin from scratch, again. But three years later, I walked down graduation aisle with Shizuka Horii. 

       I walked into Health Class as a junior wondering just how awkward this was going to be. The teacher stood up front, same height as most of the students or even shorter. She had a butch haircut, a FHN baby blue sweatshirt and gym teacher windbreakers. I sat at a table in the back and peered around. I noticed a girl two rows in front of me. She had dark hair and school supplies ready. Something in me told me that we shouldn’t both have to sit by ourselves, so I grabbed my bag and moved to join her, giving a weak “Yay-health class” smile. 

       Shy. Quiet. No- silent. Thin shoulders held her striped sweater on and long necklaces draped down her unassuming size four frame. Adorable. Her coarse Japanese hair had slight brown highlights, layered, kissing her shoulders. Her sweet face shone flawless Asian skin. 

       Tomodachi means “friend” in Japanese and it was one of the first words she taught me. After our measly health worksheets, we had nearly half an hour to dive into her other homework. She didn’t need any help with math because “Numbers are the same in Japan.” But her thick books stressed her to the limit as her English slowly gained legs and could support her. I taught her silly English phrases and she taught me Japanese, complete with scrawled drawings from both of us. She told me about her family, and how her Mom prohibits chocolate so she doesn’t gain weight. This seemed ridiculous to me because Shizuka raved in a note to me at one point, “I love you more than chocolate!’’ She told me how much she fought with her sister Aoi, and what each of their names mean in Japanese. She was surprised to hear that we buy our siblings Christmas presents.  I taught her knock-knock jokes. I always gave out hugs without knowing any different but her reaction was usually limp. Eventually she candidly said, “I didn’t know why you hugged me. In Japan- we don’t do that.”

       Shizuka’s athleticism was pretty much non-existent. She wanted to learn- so every Wednesday when Health Class traveled to the gym for an hour, we played different sports. And by “played sports”, I mean I would tell her the basic idea, kick or throw the ball, and watch her hand-eye coordination take over. It was comical. It was on those days that her fun personality shone through as she delighted in trying something new and different. She cried out “Keeeemu!” And laughed with child-like glee.

       Shizuka was an amazing artist. For a drawing assignment, she asked me for pictures of myself playing the piano. After the assignment was graded, she gave me the beautiful drawing in vibrant color. My blonde hair lay casual in a spikey ponytail, my blue-tipped fingers dancing on the piano keys. It took my breath away and she told me to keep it. She won numerous awards and was accepted into an art school in Chicago. Our handwritten notes to each other contain her broken English sentiments with Christmas trees, Snoopy, small animals and cute designs sketched on the sides of every letter. Maybe she was bored in class, or just doodling. But in every note she wrote “I love you!” I was her best tomodachi, the greatest American friend she ever had. I often talked with her about my faith and asked a missionary from my church if she could find a Japanese Bible for her. I gave it to Shizuka with some of my favorite verses on a bookmark. I didn’t know she would need such comfort so soon.

       In the Fall of our senior year, she was crying by our side-by-side lockers one day as I approached to drop off my textbooks. I had never seen her cry. “My father is in hospital- he had car accident.” He was in bad shape. She shook in my arms and I knew she needed me then more than she ever had before. My mom took me to the hospital and we walked into the large room. His hospital blanket was draped above his thigh and Mom quickly pulled it down to cover his lower body. “He’d die a thousand deaths if he knew.” He wasn’t awake. Tubes, machines, eyes closed. A little older lady came in to meet us. Her face was sweet and I hugged her, wanting to ask her why she doesn’t let her daughter eat chocolate. She was happy to see us and her smile was pure joy and surprise. She thanked us for coming, but did not know much English. 

       It took him weeks to recover, but he got to go home and resume his normal life and job. Shizuka was so relieved. She told me that she had been reading the Bible that I had given her during this difficult time when she was so worried about her dad. She thanked me, saying Psalm 56:3 really helped her. “When I am afraid, I will trust in you.”

       Sometime during the drudgery of a the school year, she gave me a blue photo album with brown leather accents and told me that it would hold our pictures in it after we go to Japan together. I looked at her like with obvious negativity and shock. Why was she assuming this? Does she know she’s crazy or does she need me to tell her? “Shizuka, I don’t like fish!” She had heard this excuse before, but her persistence was admirable. She invited me to Japan constantly; In our notes back and forth, at our daily locker visits, and when she gave me the photo album. I wasn’t interested in going halfway around the world to visit a culture I knew nothing about. It was her country. Her family. Her sushi. I didn’t have a legitimate excuse, but I denied her pleadings. She wrote me a note: “Pray God and ask Him.” She was sneaky, using my faith against me. 

       It took almost a year, but she finally convinced me that they eat more than fish and I surprised her with a dozen questions and then an eventual “Yes!” We planned for June of 2007, the summer before I left for college. I would fly there by myself and stay for 13 days. 

       “Mom, I can’t do this. They asked me how old I am, and I think I gave them the wrong answer.” I stared at the runway and then my shaky hands, obviously not thinking clearly. I transformed from a graduated adventurous young lady to a scared little girl. I wanted to pee my pants at the thought of traveling by myself to a place where A-Z didn’t exist, just symbols and mass-confusion. My younger brother Jeff took the phone from my Mom. “Kim, do you want to see Shizuka?” I hesitated at his brash tone of voice. “Yeah...” “Then stop being a wimp and get on that plane. You can do this!” My tears dried in relief at the loving exhortation of my brother. My jelly legs walked me through the gate and I got on the plane. I roamed in the darkness of the “overnight” flight when we were soaring over the Pacific Ocean and met a friendly college kid. He wrote me a list of common words and calmed my fears. I landed with his scrawled list in hand and eyes scanning for my tomodachi. 

Related: Japan Part 2: Shizuka, Sushi and Strange Showers

Japan Part 2: Shizuka, Sushi and Strange Showers

       Nijon. That is the name of Shizuka’s home country that we call Japan. When I landed I didn’t have too much time to worry about where to go or how to exchange my US dollars. Shizuka’s face of an angel appeared and though my bag was heavy on my back, the initial challenge was behind me. I hugged my tour guide.
       Arriving in a new place evokes a wonder like no other. I became a sponge, soaking up the busy city of Osaka. I flew out of Grand Rapids to Detroit on Sunday afternoon, spent the night in the air, and landed in Japan on Monday as the sun was setting. My ears heard Japanese jibberish of Shizuka and her friend. I was numb with 17-hour flight jet-lag and the sheer fact that I was halfway across the world with one solitary acquaintance.
We settled temporarily into a tiny apartment with a strange bathroom. A red bucket was to be turned upside down to sit on as a hand-held stream was under my control. The next morning we commenced the walking. I mean, activities. Oh how my dear feet did ache. We strolled for hours through markets filled with fish, rice, octopus and delicious-sizzling meat on a stick. We rode subways and I became great friends with “Udon.” It was a warm, buttery bowl of noodle soup that was my favorite choice instead of raw fish or shrimp with eyeballs still hanging on for dear life.

Shizuka mapped out our itinerary for the two week trip. We spent a rainy day at Universal Studios with two of her friends- Naoko and Haruna. Her smiles were often, her English conversation with me bright and silly. She was home and I came with her. Her happiness added a beauty to her already-adorable face. Her friends Naoko and Haruna whipped out their English dictionary and shyly asked me proper-staged textbook questions. Sometimes they were bold, sometimes embarrassed to practice their broken English aloud.
We wandered around rainy Universal Studios, riding rides and chatting. A welcome break in a covered area rested my newly-sore legs. Shizuka bought us some harmless looking potato/fried bite sized snacks. I looked at it, knowing I was in foreign territory and asked what it was. “I will tell you after you eat it. It’s good! Try it!” She looked suspicious but I felt brave. I popped it in and looked around to hear what my taste buds were whispering. A little chewy. Warm. Not bad. She smiled, “It is an octopus tentacle in the middle. Just a small one. But it’s good, right?” A warm tootsie-roll octopus-pop. Wonderful. Before the two weeks were done, I tried cow intestine – (a little stringy and very chewy) and cow tongue- (tough meat but good). We ate rice and egg omelet dishes with ketchup on top, vegetable and fried egg roll crispy appetizers. We sat on the ground at some restaurants and used chopsticks all the time. I got pretty good at it, except when I stabbed my chopsticks straight up in the middle when I was finished with my lunch one day. Shizuka hurriedly took them out. “That is very bad. Don’t do that.” Whoops.
The most amazing meals I have ever delighted in were at the Japanese tables. A skillet is built into the middle of the table and the raw meat is placed on separate dishes, cold and pink. The sizzles begin and the rice is dished into bowls, as well as a soy sauce mixture in a smaller bowl. I can almost taste the bursting, juicy meat and sauce in my mouth once again. So incredible. Shizuka was right when she spent months convincing me to come to her country. “The food is so good. We eat more than fish! I promise!” I brought sauce home with me but couldn’t create a twin experience for my family. Shizuka taught me how to eat rice with chopsticks. I was doing it wrong- adding sauce to the rice and making it slide off my chopsticks instead of leaving the sticky rice clumped together on top of a bed of two thin chopsticks. She worked patiently with me as I adjusted to the temporary normal I found myself in.

It was the first weekend since I had arrived on Monday. I already had a preview of her bunch of friends at a dinner buffet on Tuesday. We took a million pictures, and it was the first time I realized everyone flashed the peace sign around for every picture and the photographer would say “hai-chizu!” it is similar to the way we say “Cheese!”  I rode on the back of Shizuka’s bike in a long pink skirt, defying traffic and dark skies to meet her friends. I knew the beach weekend with her four friends was going to be wild because it started out with playing on the railroad tracks while we waited for our train to take us to the beach cottage. (That may have been my idea). Mountains soared all around us and Shizuka had shown me the water-soaked rice fields on the way there. We giggled and ran around like old friends, even though they had just met me and I didn’t know ANYTHING they were saying. I could understand why Shizuka was so happy though, and I knew we were going to have some fun.
We played on the beach and wandered along the shore, built a sand castle with tunnels that met in the middle where we all clasped hands and tried to take pictures. The girls got right to work with the skillets and hot pads, whipping out delicious meats, rice and soup for dinner. We ate from one big middle platter and I felt like an adopted and very welcome friend.

The next day we were a bit hung over after the giddy Saturday we had. We visited a mountain tourist attraction and rode individual ski lifts up to the top. I heard the loudspeaker bark something in Japanese, and Shizuka jerked her head towards me and yelled. “He says you have to stop shaking the seat back and forth.” Whoops. Good thing I had a translator.
We got back to town and said goodbye to her friends. Shizuka and I had a lot of time to walk and explore Japan as simple friends enjoying the summer together. We went shopping, visited a museum, and paraded around arcades full of fun photo booths. We climbed in together, snapped a few fun pictures and then doctored them up on the screen with stickers and words and colorful silliness.
Her brother’s friend chauffeured us around to botanical gardens and Buddhist temples tucked near the mountains of Kyoto. We saw glorious flowers, coy fish and bamboo gardens. We dined in restaurants, were given warm washcloths to cleanse our hands before devouring the delicious meat and rice that I had come to love. He had smooth Asian skin and spikey hair. She kept whispering to me how cute he was and I nodded in agreement. She blushed when they talked, always a turn of a grin on her young lips.
       As the blissful older guy left, her cousin took his place. He was goofier, tall with black-rimmed modern glasses, preppy clothes and a smile that took up his whole face. He couldn’t have been much older than us and he had a lot of fun with Shizuka. They talked and laughed and I stared at my surroundings, enjoying the foreign yet peaceful hours lapsing around me. But when we drove home as the darkness fell, my warm fuzzies for our tour guide disappeared. The trek home brought us through winding back country mountain highways. I gripped the seat in terror. His laughing and jovial conversations with Shizuka quickly felt hazardous to me as I sat quietly in the middle backseat. The speed of his little car revved higher and my fear became paralyzing. I pictured the worst and entertained the awful idea of literally flying off a cliff. I couldn’t take my eyes away from the road- unlike the driver who constantly looked back and forth to talk with Shizuka. I watched the headlights dance up and down the pavement and wished he would slow down a bit. The nausea only stopped when he returned us safely to the home for the night. I said “Arigato” but what I really meant was, “You almost drove us off a mountain, you reckless hooligan!”
Our last four days were spent in Shizuka’s cousin’s beautiful home. Shizuka’s aunt and uncle- Obasan and Ojisan- attended to us in every way. A windy staircase brought us to our own large bedroom upstairs, and the bathroom was on the first floor. Their fancy toilet had a button on the side that sprayed water. I asked Shizuka about it, and she delicately explained its use for “extra cleaning.” The bathtub was filled to the brim with hot water every night, and a covering protecting the steam from sneaking out. I was getting used to taking “showers” while sitting on the bucket and single-handedly washing off with the sprayer. I still needed practice. The tub’s purpose was for after your shower, but I wasn’t brave enough to climb in, knowing others would come after me.
Her aunt and uncle were generous and kind, and I wanted to bottle up their hospitality and take it with me. Her aunt was warm and inviting, and scurried around caring for us. Her uncle was stoic but kind in his own way by his mere presence. Their daughter lived with them, and she was more of a bundle of energy and a powerful presence. She was ready to go shopping as the morning sun rose every day. Her long hair thinned on its way down from the crest of her hair and bangs to the curling-iron doll-like tips. She had an itty-bitty waist and her thick makeup made her look like a Japanese princess, but she acted more like a queen. It was as if she always woke up that way. I could tell she was hard to keep up with.
We arrived late afternoon and hauled our luggage upstairs. Shizuka’s family had put together a full-blown oriental dinner for us. Shizuka feared the worst when she saw what they had been working so hard on. She looked cautiously at me before we sat down to eat.

Sushi.

       A pit grew in my stomach when they placed a fancy wooden tray in front of me, four inches tall, lined with two rows of sushi and one lonely cooked piece of fish. I hated at that moment that I was a picky eater, and in all of my time in Japan- this was the very worst moment. I was nauseas. I didn’t know what to do, because there was no other food on the table. Everyone had sushi. Everyone else was excited to eat their sushi. But they all stared at me. Sushi is meant to be eaten in one full bite and I saw no utensils.  I couldn’t cut it into smaller pieces to pick out the rice, tackling it in portions. I had no way out. I stared and stared until I couldn’t prolong the inevitable a moment longer. My stomach refused and I felt childish. I figured I could at least handle the cooked fish, even though I refused to eat fish even in America. The exterior was gray and slimy, barely cooked. I missed home more in that moment than ever before. I could feel their eyes on me, but tears filled mine and I couldn’t even bear the texture of the fish in my mouth. I gagged and barely swallowed my first bite. I looked to Shizuka on my left and said, “I’m sorry” and went upstairs to be homesick all by myself.
On a trip overseas, there is bound to be a breaking point, and that was mine. Not being able to communicate fully, walking miles each day, relying on Shizuka for everything constantly, learning and practicing strange ways of showering/eating/culturing. The sushi set down in front of me in love wasn’t something I wanted to reject. But it was and unappetizing surprise and I just had to push it away. Shizuka explained to me later that they wanted to show me a true Japanese welcome, and she had no idea. I laid down and let the tears escape safely, knowing the night of rest would heal me.
The dinners following that episode were some of the most creatively delicious foods ever created! I was stunned by the perfection and flavor of all the meats, sauce, eggrolls, potato dishes and desserts. I poured out my thanks incessantly to make up for the first night. Their faces lit up when I said “Oishi!” with such enthusiasm. Delicious!
Shuzuka’s cousin took us to a place near the mountains where they make paper. A short Japanese man led us around and instructed us each step of the way. We held large wood templates in a basin of water and shook it side to side for sixty seconds. It was a thick gluey substance and the frame hung heavy in our thin arms. The guide lifted out the large brown frame and set it out to dry. The water settled and the pulp thickened. We used color dye to decorate our paper and we proudly took them home to show off. We had made paper and it was strangely empowering.
      While shopping, Shizuka helped me pick out a brightly colored Yukata. It was a lighter, summer-version of a kimono. We stood in her aunt’s room as she helped us wrap the cloth around us and tied the thick band around our waists. Shizuka and I pinned our hair up and giggled as if it were Prom night. They brought me wooden sandals that platformed my 5’5’’ self two inches taller. We struggled down the stairs and walked to a nearby bar to show off our traditional clothing to her friend. I waddled in the long-tight robe and felt very un-oriental. Shizuka looked beautiful and we strode together in our fancy garb down the sandy streets. It seemed very fitting to end our trip in the traditional clothes of her country. The country I visited for a short minute but would remember forever.
       Three years later, I flew to Chicago for Spring Break to visit Shizuka months before getting married. I knew our time was short. She lived in a tiny studio apartment and talked about how much she didn’t like to cook. Fashion school was hard and the girls were quite witchy. She pulled out a long blue evening gown that she had made, shocking me with a gift of her talent once again. It was funky and silky and strange and gorgeous because she made it with her own two fashionista hands. She projected a picture on the wall and we sketched together. I cleaned her kitchen and we walked Navy Pier and saw a movie. It was so refreshing to be in our American/Japanese tandem again. It was our last time together. She gave me mascara. “It’s so snowy and windy and rainy all the time, I can only wear waterproof.” I smiled. Her eyes looked tired, and I could tell she couldn’t wait to get back to Japan. She liked our French fries and had learned a valuable tool- English. But her heart belonged in her country. She said, “I want to get married and be Mom.” Now she is, and she’s home. She is married with an adorable little girl and a baby boy on the way. I miss all those special things about her and wonder if I will ever see her again.

Shizuka gifted me with her friendship, an intangible feeling of love and acceptance at all times. She showered me with kind words on a daily basis and trusted me with her tears. Her sweet demeanor put me at ease in the rough waves of uncertain high school teenage seas. We supported each other. We taught each other. We ignored the opposites of our culture and embraced the common thread of true friendship. We pushed through the barriers of language and misunderstanding to braid a beautiful, unique relationship.
I never thought the blue and brown leather photo album she gave me would actually be filled with photos of my little white self amidst a sea of Asian mountains and smiling oriental faces. She won me over. She brought me to her world and home safe again. She pried open my eyes to the beauty beyond my front door, and no price can be found for that. I wonder if my high school class hadn’t split in two and I lost all my friends… would I have noticed Shizuka? My friendship with her didn’t make me popular. But giving up ten friends for one Shizuka was worth it, and if I had to go back… I’d stay for her.

Related: Japan Part 1: Math is Universal

Remember

March 22, 2016: I fidget in the waiting room chair, looking around at the magazines sitting on coffee tables. This Neurologist’s office is a painful pinch of why we have to be here in the first place. New city, new doctors, and today is EEG day. Why? Because Kevin’s twitching keeps me up at night, and the new doctor wants to change his medication. Sometimes his body jerks suddenly and my eyes spring open, only to see him sleeping soundly. There was a point where I could time his twitching to every 20 seconds. Twitch. Deep breath. Leg movement, then nothing. I would watch his back and count. Every 20 seconds he would twitch. Breathe. Move his leg and then lay still. His condition is under control and even invisible to the world around him and often himself, but not to me. He was unconscious, but I was there. I remember.

From Kevin’s first months on this earth, he suffered from seizures. His mother cradled a tiny pink-fleshed little boy as his left side shook for thirty minutes. A four-year-old sister peered in and felt the fear perspiring from her parents. When chicken pox struck him later and a fever broke out, the seizing returned. Hospitals and medicine cured a seemingly temporary medical issue, but not without impairing Kevin’s ability to verbally mature. Randy and Diana couldn’t bear to watch any more children suffer, so they made a tough decision. Their family was complete with their two kids.

The volcano remained dormant for several years before bubbling up to the surface again in Kevin’s teen years. Suddenly it was a daily occurrence. His lips whispered the secret to few listeners because of its strange yet harmless symptoms. His chest would fill with heat and an unknown force would close his eyes and draw his head downward. His body tightened and relaxed several times in mere seconds, but he would always remain conscious. When the “spasms” came at night, they always drifted him to sleep.

August 2006: As he went off to college in Tennessee, the daily spasms came in waves during the daytime but then would disappear for weeks or even months. Their intensity increased significantly. Now they came not just at night in the comfort of his room, but during class, dinner, and campus events. Kevin could sense the coming spasm and reject the outward demonstration so that no one noticed. He finally worked up the courage to tell his parents, and over the summer he was checked out by a few doctors with no results. Nobody really talked about this “thing,” because it was a mystery. It didn’t make sense, but at this point it was still seemingly harmless.

August 2008: We started dating, and he gently let me in on his secret. Occasionally, his hand would grip mine tighter than normal, and I would watch my boyfriend tuck downward; shriveling into himself with a slight tremble. Five seconds later he looked up at me with a red face. But always a slight smile. The warm feeling in his chest was something he had grown accustomed to, like a friend stopping by to visit. This was his normal.

September 2009: I was ironically at the hospital with a friend when Kevin’s name scrolled across my phone. I stepped toward the automatic door, and flipped the phone open to answer. The balcony above blocked the sun rays from dipping down to touch my face. I heard a familiar voice beckoning me for help, but my understanding was clouded. I struggled to grasp the words and hold them firmly in my hands.
“Kim, I don’t know anything. They found me and are asking me questions, but I don’t know what happened.”

“What? What do you mean you don’t know anything?”

“I can’t remember anything. I don’t know what happened. It’s weird.”

I snapped my phone shut after promising to come see him as soon as I could. I went to check on my friend and pulled back the hanging curtain to let her know what happened. What did happen? My head felt blank. Kevin was lost, and I needed to get there to help him.

I walked up to his desk in the seminary office and found a small crowd. They were asking him questions, and he sat there—confused and helpless. His co-worker Andrea had found him staring at his computer, not moving. She knew something was wrong. His RA came in and asked Kevin what sport we play outside on the greens every day. Kevin stared at him. At me.

“Football?”

My mind fainted. NO—we play Ultimate Frisbee almost every day together! How does he not know? I knew something was terribly wrong. Andrea looked at me with worried eyes. “I was so scared that he wouldn’t remember you.” My breathing was shallow. His memory had tripped and fallen, but at least he remembered me.

His parents picked him up and rushed him to Atlanta for tests. I spent four days on campus telling everyone who asked that he went home for the weekend. The pit in my stomach grew, and I wondered what we were dealing with, wondering what the doctors would find.

Jack squat. That’s what the doctors found. They couldn’t figure out what was happening, even when he had a spasm right in front of them. We had set sail on a journey but couldn’t even make it out of the shallow water.

College life resumed. Busy, busy, busy days. A ring appeared on my left hand, and on graduation day we ran away to Dallas, Texas to begin seminary. The spasms continued but only every couple of months. However, the memory loss returned with a sharp bite. The once physical problem was now messing with Kevin’s mind in a scary way. After a spasm in the middle of the night, he would reach for any thread of knowledge about his life and found nothing. He would hold me and in stark confusion ask simple questions. “Where are we? What classes do I have tomorrow? What day is it? What phase of Ph.D am I in?”

I would repeat the same answers over and over again.

In the morning we would discuss the details of his day, and his memory crept back in after abandoning him. I left for work on those days a bit concerned that he would lose his way, but he managed.

June 2013: We packed up Aaron and Kristine’s car and hopped in for a 9 day trek to the Grand Canyon and back. We hiked gorgeous trails, threw snowballs at 10,000 feet, shimmied through tight openings, clung to chains in difficult terrain, counted a billion lizards, and stood within arm’s length of moose. We raced to arrive at the Grand Canyon before sunfall, and watched the burning glow disappear behind the massive sheets of orange rock. All Kevin will forever know is only what he sees in pictures. Spasms and disorientation plagued that week, and the lack of sleep proved to be a major component. At one point we were hiking through skinny slot canyons when his sweaty hand grabbed mine. I knew what was happening, but our friends were scared as they tasted the bitter fear of the unknown for the first time. We looked at them with understanding eyes.

Kevin was gifted the rare opportunity to visit Bryce Canyon National Park, Zion National Park, Grand Canyon National Park and many others. But his memory has permanently blocked out 70-80% of that trip, and there is nothing we can do about it.

While his symptoms had progressed over the years, we really had nothing to show for it. We had no idea what would happen next. But soon, it all would make a little more sense.

Nov. 7th 2013: Kevin’s violent shaking woke me up at 2:54am. I immediately reached for his bare shoulders and pulled his head away from the wall. I rolled him on his side and instinctively patted his back. Seizure. Grand mal. Thick, foamy saliva oozed from his clenched mouth. He was unconscious but breathing. While my baby dreamt, I held his shuddering body and flipped through the little knowledge I had learned from my dad’s medical career. The shaking stopped after 20 seconds, but it wasn’t over. His throat choked up, and he started grunting and snorting. I wondered if he couldn’t breathe because of his mouth guard, but decided against taking it out. Soon all fell silent, and I bounded off the bed to grab my phone. I called 911. The dispatcher walked me through the aftermath, asking me questions about Kevin. I told her that maybe paramedics didn’t need to come because he was breathing. To be honest, I was proud of what my Dad had taught me and I thought I was handling the situation well. I knew that Kevin was okay and I thought that was enough.
 
But then she suggested that I try to wake him up. I called his name and pushed on his back. Nothing. My scratchy voice got louder and I pushed a little harder; he slept on. Suddenly, I felt awful. The calmness fled, and the simple fact that I couldn’t wake him up paralyzed me. “I-I-I can always wake him up; he’s not a deep sleeper. I should be able to wake him up…” Tears sprung up for the first time and I didn’t know what to think. The dispatcher held strong amidst my fear, and her strength carried me across quiet waters.

Three men left their stretcher at the door and followed me into the bedroom. Their thick jackets and sheer height filled up our hallway with a powerful presence. I felt so small. “I can’t wake him up.” The lead paramedic walked right up to Kevin’s bedside, placed his rough hand on one shoulder, shook once, and bellowed, “Kevin!” I jumped on the bed next to Kevin as his eyes sprang open, and he flew backwards in surprise. “Woah!” Kevin yelled. I told him what was happening, but he was too startled and tired to make sense of the strangers in his bedroom. The men poked his finger. They emphatically told me to get him checked out immediately, because the spasms he had been having were indeed small seizures. They told me what medicine he would be prescribed. The fog thickened, and I just nodded and tried to listen to the unfamiliar jargon droning from their lips.

I don’t know how I managed to fall asleep after the men left, but morning came, and I texted my co-worker in exhaustion. Kevin was dressed and ready for his class. “Are you sure you want to stay home? I am feeling okay.” I smiled weakly. “We have a lot to figure out. I don’t want to leave you yet.” But was it me who didn’t want to be left alone? This was a normal day to him. I sat on the couch and looked out our apartment window to the campus below. I watched with tired eyes as he crossed the street, walked the beaten path, and disappeared behind the library. I thought about last night and the way my world flipped upside down in an instant. I remembered the patient dispatcher, her sweetness, and the way the paramedics diagnosed him so easily. My mind strained to remember the medicine he had told me about. I couldn’t. The madness had drifted away, leaving salty drops to trickle down my cheeks and the weight of it all to be felt for the first time.

Kevin had another spasm in the car as I drove us to the doctor that afternoon. We skyped with his parents, and they took the news well. Diana planned to drive out to us in a few days. For the next two weeks she took him to appointments and sat through tests so that I could keep working. She cooked us dinner and tried to keep busy; walking miles at the park and probably praying a hundred times a day. I am sure she had flashbacks where Kevin became her little boy once again. Helpless and sick in this cruel world. I hate that those painful memories sprung up and haunted her once again.

After all the testing, we had an official diagnosis. The neurologist said his brain is very active at night, and there are parts of his brain that are “seizure-prone.” Without proper medication for the rest of his life, he is likely to have more seizures. Kevin’s family finally had their answer after years of confusion, and Diana was able to go home with an answer after years of confusion.

Seizure medication can bring depression and unfortunately, Kevin was no exception. We laughed at the first mention of “irritability” as a side effect, but it soon proved to be a battle we would fight. It took almost a year for us to pinpoint these side effects and search for a solution. Buying a dog as a companion would have made sense in this situation, but our apartment forbade all animals except birds or fish. So Kevin bought a turtle. We named it Toby, and hilariously, this small reptile and its strange daily behavior became exactly what Kevin needed. Toby was Kevin’s pick-me-up, his serotonin. Who would have thought?

 

Our four year phase in Dallas ended after mounds of trouble with his dissertation. He stumbled through his work with foggy memory, but he was able to finish most of the Ph D. program. Finishing his dissertation is on the back burner for now, and he is working as a High School Bible Teacher here in Clermont, Florida. 

I honestly don’t think about Kevin’s condition much. Only when I hear of others suffering with the same thing and I quietly feel their pain. In those moments I am snapped back to that night and my uncomfortable experience. Only because of his grand mal were the doctors able to diagnose and treat him. All those years of struggling have brought him to a better place today; physically and mentally. I dare you to ask him what he has learned through it all. Ask him what he thought when the very thing that gained him two Valedictorian honors, a master’s degree at twenty-one, and a Ph D. status was stolen away without his permission or control. He reevaluated who gave him that gift in the first place and how quickly his mind can be ripped away.

I don’t like the word seizure. Just like nails on a chalkboard, knives, and CSI; it creeps me out and makes me shudder and want to run away. I don’t talk about what happened to Kevin because I just flat out don’t like it. I’m sure I never will. But it could be worse, and I know it. It’s what we have been given, and I have come to terms with it and feel at peace. My dad has told me, “Of all the physical problems to have, this is not the worst.” I trust him. Kevin and I know that we are blessed, and we do not take our lives for granted.

PS- Kevin has since graduated from one turtle to three, a pond in the backyard, and two bunnies. I never thought I would feel like we are running a zoo, but it’s all good. Whatever makes him happy.

Welcome Home

The pros and cons of buying a house flipped through my brain for months before Kevin and I took the first steps. I eagerly peppered friends and family with questions because I knew it would be one of the biggest decisions of our lives. Some days I heard complaints about paperwork, maintenance and insurance; so I thought it might too big of a headache for us right now. Other days, the look on a friend’s face when I shared our rent payment amount made me want to buy a house in a split second. “You are just putting money in someone else’s pocket!” I agreed, but understood that renting has its perks too. Last fall, my dryer was squeaking and my ever-patient husband finally had enough. I called maintenance and my Puerto Rican friend Alex came to bail me out. He not only tried his best to fix the dryer, he ordered me a new one! On that day, I was grateful for my apartment.

In December we decided that I would speak with a lender to get a professional opinion. Kevin was worried that we didn’t have enough. I had my doubts too, but I wanted to at least try. Once we had an unbiased third party tell us we didn’t have enough right now, we would then know how much we should save in the coming months.

Armando is a local lender that is about as friendly as God made friendly people. His wide smile and professional demeanor made for a pleasant conversation. I met him in my office at work, talking candidly about our financial situation. He didn’t even blink when I showed him our bank statement. His kindness was overwhelming and he affirmed my dreams without hesitation. I shook his hand and came home to tell Kevin the good news. As we met with Armando again, Kevin asked all the hard questions and really felt confident that we could move forward and approach a realtor.

We met Mario and Brandie in a conference room with fluffy brown chairs and a large, fancy table. Kevin and I felt younger with every second that ticked by, but they welcomed us into the home-buying world. They told us that we are in a better spot than 85% of the people that come to them to buy a house. They said our price range was reasonable, and they were confident that there was a home in Clermont waiting for us to cross the threshold. We felt a weight slide off our shoulders and a cloud rise under our feet.

Looking back at what got us to this point, I can see how everything happens for a reason. Seminary was a tough road; anyone who has gone through full-time education knows the feeling of endless tuition payments and tight budgets. Kevin and I approached budgeting and saving similarly; but I struggled to grasp the vision behind it. In my optimism, I knew the dollars would eventually buy me the American Dream, but I didn’t realize how much I had to give up on a daily/weekly/monthly basis to get there. Kevin’s approach was motivated by the strange feeling that everything his wife wanted would cost more than she was saving. It took us awhile to come to the conclusion that we were both right. Kevin’s approach got us to the point of buying a house with a decent down payment, while my approach helps with enjoying life along the way. We have been ultra-conservative with our saving habits, but it has led us to a major step in our lives together. We have been walking the crowded path through a dense forest and have finally come to a break in the tree line. A couple more steps, and we are at the doorstop of our first home.

Around the second week of January, our realtor Mario started emailing us links to homes in our area and we couldn’t wait to pounce on the chance to see the properties. After living in an apartment for 6 months with less than 700 square feet, the homes we looked at were a huge upgrade. Walking in each front door and peering around was always my favorite part. Three bedrooms! A yard! A two-car garage for our one car! The excitement built with each house we saw. Mario squashed some bugs, knocked on walls to check water damage and often laughed at my emotional outbursts. He commented on various aspects of each house, all while avoiding ceiling fans and dangerously low ceilings. (He’s over 6 feet tall).

We found a perfect house after looking at about six properties. It was a corner lot, a block away from Kohl’s with a beautiful floor plan. The lines on the carpet displayed the bank’s effort to spruce up the foreclosed home and I pictured our belongings set up in each room. We made a higher offer than the listing price and waited. After Mario told us we were in line with ten other offers, we gave up hope and prepared for the bad news. It wasn’t long before our first rejection email came and we were back to square one.

We continued house hunting and took Mario’s advice to expand our search. Kevin created spreadsheets to compare the different houses we looked at, and we rated what was important to us. One foreclosure was looking really good until Mario showed us the house a second time. He found significant water damage in the master bathroom, and advised us to run the other way. I loved the layout of that house, but he proved to have our backs and keep us away from potential trouble.

Our spirits were stagnant even though the emails kept coming through. Nothing really grabbed our attention. But then Kathleen Court waltzed into our life on a Sunday afternoon and the pictures looked promising. Then again, a lot of the pictures from the other houses looked good too. We hopped in the car to do a drive-by, and I heard strange words from my husband. “Kathleen is the one. I can feel it.” I laughed it off because I didn’t want to get my hopes up. We drove by the neighborhood and talked about the fantastically low price. It seemed too good to be true and because we hadn’t even been inside yet; I was expecting to be let down.

           On Tuesday we had a list of three houses to see and Kathleen was last. The first house was great but had a suspicious neighbor next door with pit bull cages and several security cameras. Mario and Kevin both expressed how detrimental one bad neighbor could be. Unfortunately, that was a deal breaker and we were forced to move on. The second house was on a cul-de-sac near the road and a bike path. We liked it, but I did feel that it was a bit busy next to a main road. It didn’t give me the warm fuzzies, but it was certainly on our list of possibilities.

Kathleen Court was last on the list. Kevin roamed through the house with a smile on his face, and my own face lit up when I saw the porch and vast backyard. The closer I walked to take a better look, I saw a second barbecue pit next to the screened in porch. The beautiful, flat backyard looked better than any house we toured. I ran my fingers across the granite countertops and glanced at the wood cabinets with a backsplash and stainless steel appliances. Mario even looked pleased. “This is priced really well.” That was something we hadn’t heard, so we drilled him about the various components that played into the value. He talked to us about the square footage, the age of the roof, the AC unit and the upgraded kitchen. Kevin was right. Kathleen Court for the win!

Mario looked at the pile of business cards on the counter and made a comment that he knew the realtor selling the house. He took his phone out to text him while Kevin and I poked around some more. He told us to huddle close together and cross our fingers. He snapped a picture and sent it to the seller’s realtor. We told Mario we were willing to go up in price to get the house if we needed to. “Woah- hold on! Asking price!” We didn’t believe that we could get the house at the asking price, but Mario sure did.

On the way home, Kevin decided to use the gift card he was saving for Valentine’s Day to go out to dinner. Even though Mario told us not to put champagne on ice yet… We did anyways. We ate at Outback Steakhouse and shared our thoughts about the house. Less than 24 hours later, I got a text at work and called Kevin to tell him the good news. Our realtor worked his magic and we got the house at the asking price. We got the house! Even better, three weeks later the appraisal came back $1500 more; giving us a little equity even before closing.

The weeks after the initial paperwork have consisted of more paperwork, inspections, learning about septic tanks, pest control and the previous owner’s lifestyle. The roof is on the top of our to-do list but is getting crowded with several other home improvement projects. We’ve researched washers and dryers, lawn mowers and carpet cleaners. Our naivety in a new house will only survive if we don’t educate ourselves. This is our new adventure and we are tackling it head on.

           Yes, it’s scary. We know there are going to be bumps and bruises, and a lot of you-tube tutorials. We haven’t written the big check yet, but we know that the down payment will be a huge payoff from all the years of saving. We will be home-owners. 

Closing day is set for February 29^th. So this year, we will be celebrating Leap Year by making Clermont, Florida our HOME.