DTS: An Expected End

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

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

“Dear Kevin Patton, 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Related Post: Remember: Kevin's Medical History

Yolande's story

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                        

                  

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

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

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

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

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

                         








         

    

Related: Kevin and Kim: Rewind to the Beginning