The Weight Within

       The heaviness in my chest is a real weight that pushes me backward every day. It’s a game for me to count the time from when I first wake up to when I notice it. Sometimes it is mere minutes. Sometimes, graciously, it is hours. It may leave when I am distracted but it comes back. And some nights it feels strong like an elephant on my chest and I wither underneath the pressure.

       I know what day it came. It was a Saturday evening last fall and I cried so hard I made myself physically sick. I was gripped with emotional pain that burrowed deep. The next day, I felt the unusual weight creep into my system and I thought I could just run it off. No. From that day on, it hasn’t left. I drive through the winding roads, watching the world pass by in flashes of green and sky blue, existing as if everything is normal. I silently wonder if the pressure in my chest will ever leave. Is it here to stay? Is this my forever?

       The heaviness stays with me even as I read quietly in the comfort of my home. All logic says that a peace should wash over me in a quiet wave, and the stress should be carried off too. But I turn pages and maybe laugh or reflect on the author’s brilliant words; but the force hiding in my chest still feels strong like something undefeatable.

       Or I run through my neighborhood, pumping music between my ears and turning up the volume louder. I will the pain to release through my limbs. I run harder, begging it to exhale mixed with my hurried breaths and drift away from its cage within me.

It stays. 

       I breathe steadily; deep breaths that swallow the air and I wish for the calming effect to travel immediately through my body. But each breath just demands another breath. I touch my hand to the bones that chamber the weight. I touch the pressure that remains.

       Anxiety is somewhat a new thing for me. I know that I am not a severe case, that others cry beneath the weight of worse attacks that I will never know. Maybe it is better called stress, but it feels so much worse than that word encompasses. I have never been a “go with the flow” person necessarily, but I have never considered myself an anxious person or even a worrier either. This probably isn’t fair to write this while I am still struggling, but I feel it the deepest right now. So here I share, as I am still fighting in the tumultuous waves of the ocean as opposed to when I am relieved of this burden, resting on shore. And maybe you feel as if you are drowning in the ocean too. I can’t save you. But let’s tread water together.

       I think about how many trials are allowed in a lifetime? Is there a cap that is set- a limit that one person is allowed to suffer? Trials are the worries that race through your brain when the sun goes down and the house is quiet and deceitfully peaceful. Trials are embodied as physical, emotional, spiritual… painful. They last weeks, months or long, heart-breaking years.

       The weight of the trial is occasionally relieved by the healing balm of a friend’s company. Or the sensible words from the mouth of a counselor. Or a vacation that serves as a welcome distraction. But although your eyes drift away from the root problem for a few precious minutes, the pressure in your chest returns shortly. The trial is still there, waiting to steal away your thoughts and resolve.

       All the while, you wonder internally, “Am I crazy? Am I handling this right? What is normal? Do other people worry about this? How do they handle their stress? How do I learn to let go and actually trust God?”

       I do trust God. I do try and slow down. I do know all the verses about stress and anxiety. But it’s almost like a sick joke that is being played on me. All logic screams for me to work harder, try harder, learn, grow and earn and work work work. My livelihood depends on it. Bills must be paid. Goals must be achieved. The image of falling behind dances wickedly through my mind. I must improve. I must prove. This is what I am here to do. This is the task that I have been called to do. I must do it. I can’t let anyone down.

       And at the EXACT same time, my physical body cries for rest, for slowness, for peace. My wounds ache to be healed. I have looked at the trial through every lens and have tried to solve it on my own for months, and now I am exhausted. I yearn for all the craziness to just stop. I want to stop surviving and start living.

       So what voice do I listen to? What do you do when you have tried everything

 and still fall short?

The brutal truth is that the passing of time is the only sure hope of conquering the mountainous terrain of stress and trials. There is no quick fix. In the wide expanse of sun-up to sun-down, you talk with your wise friends, you cry the hot tears and you cling to your faith. And over time, all these things help you get through each day until one day you find the weight in your chest a little lighter. Your head a little clearer. And your gratitude list a little longer. Somehow, someway, God’s grace sustained you and now you are (albeit, unwillingly) a stronger person.

       In the end, I listen to the voice I trust. The voice that tells me to care for myself because no one else will. Logic will always be there. But this massive opportunity to blindly believe that God will provide no matter what life spits my way? This paradox to “rest and trust” in a shouting match with “work hard and do”? This chance is for today. For right now. For this season. If I can trust Him when NOTHING makes sense, then maybe amidst my doubt… I will start to believe the truth.

Malia Crushes Cancer

Megan and Glen Jusczyk were both raised in comfortable American homes, sheltered and warm. They worked hard, both playing Division One soccer and earning scholarships. In their marriage, Megan and Glen worked together in their community in Central Florida, focusing on soccer programs for kids. Success wasn’t handed to them but they had opportunities to go out and achieve their dreams. In a matter of time they would come to see that not everybody is so lucky. 

In April of 2011, a worst-case scenario crossed their paths, invading their comfortable family with a torpedo of pain and emotional torture. Their little girl Malia started complaining about her stomach at a mere two and a half years old. As Mama Megan rubbed her belly every night, she looked into her child’s face and knew something was wrong. A trip to the doctor didn’t prove fruitful until an ultrasound was ordered. Megan and Glen stared at the enemy on the screen: A softball-sized tumor warping through Malia’s insides like an unwanted guest, squeezing the life out of this unsuspecting little girl. Malia was swept up from her home and ushered into the world of doctors, needles and tubes. Megan and Glen were waiting anxiously in the hospital when they saw a line of lab coats walking towards them as if in a scene from a movie. The oncologists delivered the bad news: Stage four neuroblastoma.

Neuroblastoma is an extremely rare childhood cancer, affecting 10 children in every million, usually before the age of 5. The five-year survival rate for high-risk cases (Stage Four) of neuroblastoma is less than 40%. 40% of neuroblastoma patients are younger than 1 year when diagnosed, 35 percent are aged 1-2 years, and 25 percent are older than 2 years when diagnosed.*

Megan and Glen wasted no time and snapped right into GO mode. They researched their options, weighing location and treatment opportunities.  Boston Children’s Hospital had been rated #1 in the world for treating neuroblastoma that year. Since they were both originally from Massachusetts, it was a no-brainer to pack and move there immediately. Megan got a job transfer and worked for the insurance while Glen monitored Malia through her treatment. Neuroblastoma treatment costs at least $40,000 out of pocket, even with good insurance. Megan and Glen’s eyes would be opened to other families going through treatment who didn’t have good insurance or worse; were single parents and couldn’t work.

The whirlwind of chemo began, coupled with a stem cell transplant, blood transfusions and immunotherapy. Malia lay quiet on the bed, receiving every tube and uncomfortable surgery with an understanding that this was the way it had to be. She didn’t throw things. She didn’t scream and say “No”, even though no one would blame her if she did. Her once timid demeanor transformed into a brave fight for her life. Malia toughened up, feeling the seriousness of the situation and finding a will within her to crush this disease.

Megan and Glen clung to relentless optimism. They had no other option, and they refused to let their mind wander to the worst possible outcome. Other kids in the same units left this world and Megan and Glen grieved with those families. Funerals were becoming painfully common. Megan watched her daughter suffer, feeling as if her arms were tied behind her back, unable to help in any way. No one could take Malia’s place, and as a parent, that fact alone tortured her. But they clung to hope with every fiber of their being.

Malia was in treatment until after her 4^th birthday, and in July of 2012 was declared “NED” (No Evidence of Disease). They followed up the treatment with a trial for two more years, and she is now a beautiful 8-year-old leading a normal life with her family in Massachusetts. She pitches on a softball team with ferocity, and even bravely jumps off the high-dive at the pool with a big smile on her face.

In 2012, Glen redirected his existing non-profit organization to focus on their brand new vision. After their ordeal, the Jusczyk’s immediate desire was to stretch their arms wide to love on other families. Megan says, “It was not an option for us to do nothing.” The non-profit is called For Kids’ Sake Foundation and its mission is to raise money for neuroblastoma research and help provide for families suffering through experiences with neuroblastoma. Megan admits that running the non-profit foundation is difficult, and each event may not go as planned. But she says, “I am never going to quit and it is not going to fail.” Megan and Glen’s tenacity shouts loud, and it has paid off immensely. Next month they will be writing a check for $100,000 to go towards neuroblastoma research. Even on the hard days, this family has persevered through.

We all should be grateful for what we have. Our families. Our opportunities. Our health. But Megan and Glen didn’t want to just be grateful. They wanted to make a difference. They carry on their backs the weight of many. Their efforts are the salve and balm to the wounded ones.

For more information and to donate; visit http://maliacrushescancer.com/

*http://maliacrushescancer.com/content/nb-info/Factsheet-NB-1.pdf

This article was written for and posted on the website for AaronStrong Foundation to help spread the word and message of overcoming adversity. 

https://www.beaaronstrong.com/grit-spotlight

Without Her

       My legs pump heavy, pushing me further and further into the forest. The tread of my tennis shoes leave their imprint on crunched brown leaves. The leaves behind watch me run while the trees ahead welcome me deeper into their midst. My breath is jagged with the weight it carries from chest to exhale. The weight of it all. The impossibly tragic thought that this heart could keep beating after being shredded into bits. I wag my arms and shoulders in tune with each step. I feel drips of light sweat seep out of the crooks of my elbows and hurriedly wipe my forehead with the palm of my hand. The salty mess still stings these blue eyes. I ball up my fists tightly, angrily pounding out the last few yards. I see the lake water, sunlight sparkling off the glassy surface in tranquility. Peace might be there but I have to fight a few more seconds to find out. The tears emerge prematurely, fighting with the dripping sweat and my head pounds. I come to the water’s edge with a couple long steps, my bones stretching out and obnoxiously landing in finality.

       Everything hurts. My chest burns hot, legs throb, headache on the brink of explosion. I embrace this physical pain to carry outside of the body what lies within. I raise my hands above my head and cover my ears with my heated arms as if to drown out my thoughts. Why? Why can I get rid of excess energy with a three mile jog, yet the heart has no release? My hands move to my knees and I resist the urge to collapse flat on the leafy bed. The water is there, it is always there tucked between rolling hills lined with forest. It waits for me nearly every day.

       I drag my sweaty ponytail out from its knot and shake my hair loose. My chest still heaves and I know it is time for my haunting ritual. My sore feet bring me to the drop of water on leaf and I cry out into the void with every ounce left. I scream, my lungs reaching out far on the water. I yell words and no words all at the same time. I grab my hair though it hurts and grab my heart though I can’t.

I scream because today is her birthday.

       I want to strangle the air and throw things in the water and scream for hours. But in the end, I just let the tears come as they always do, making their own misguided paths down my face. I crumble, leaning on a stump nearby and smack the flat surface with my frail, shaking hands. I surrender. I let my heart bleed, here in this forest. Here on this stump.

       Every day is another day she is gone. Away from this life, missing every opportunity and freedom every child should know. But today is a day that we used to celebrate life. First it was one year, then eight. I should have held each year tighter, celebrated each birthday as if I knew the truth of its scarcity. She was stolen from me and never got to be nine years old. Her sweet face never reached puberty; her small hands were frozen in time as we laid her to rest. Bits of my shredded heart lie with her.

       I look up at the water, calm and cool unlike me. I rub my hands against the mess of my face that I have created. I breathe quietly, feeling the anguish leave my body in each exhale but knowing that the hollow caverns of my core will always be there. I rise up cautiously and look to the left where a tree similar to Zoe’s favorite climbing tree goes on living without her. And I turn around to go and do the same.

**This fictional short story was submitted into a writing contest based on this picture prompt. 

Escapisim

       My afternoon jog started out promising but fizzled after fifteen minutes. I took one last lap around a side street, exhaled and paced down to walking. The gray concrete silently carried me back to my cul-de-sac but I wasn’t ready for home yet. An inviting dirt road led down away from my house to the woods. The weeds grow tall and skinny, four wheel tracks criss-cross a cluttered path. My tennis shoes fling soft dirt into the air and down the back of my socks uncomfortably. I grab my arm-strapped IPod and scramble to turn the volume down because suddenly the quiet atmosphere demands my attention. I peer ahead and recognize the large Spanish-mossed trees that are home to a secret hiding place. I uphill prance to the leaf-padded ground where a white rope hangs above and an old turned over grill lay abandoned. I playfully swing on the rope until it hurts my hands. A black office chair with worn leather sits lonely next to a large wooden spindle overlooking a small, shy pond. I came here for this. I settle atop the spindle, careful not to prick my thin running shorts on rusty nails. The IPod turns off. I take a deep breath and am grateful to be the only one in this place where houses surround its serenity. I wonder what makes a simple collaboration of water, trees and grass so peaceful. Is it the silent moving clouds that have a tint of gold at their edges, a reminder of the imminent sunset? Or the way those clouds reflect colorfully off the stagnant water? I watch a hawk soar in my peripheral, landing on the tallest tree with a slight flutter of his enormous wings. The tree sways beneath his weight, but he is not worried. He adjusts his wings further and the branches bend without breaking. He looks out onto his world without a care, while I deny my own world by watching him. I have left my reality by embracing this peace. I daydream and wish and breathe… just for a second. I am escaping and it is this pond that tucks me in. This hawk that watches me. The warmth touches my skin, welcoming me. It is in this place that I forget all the busyness. The run was methodical, an exercise, a mind-numbing- music-jamming hobby. But this is different; this is sacred. I stare out and let the water be part of me, let the breeze hug me. It is only for these few moments that I have successfully escaped.

       Escapism is no new thing. An audiobook I just finished hangs heavy on my mind. For days I was immersed in the story of Christopher McCandless, a young man whose death in August of 1992 sent gossip rippling through the country. We are curious at this man’s death because he seemed to be one of the few brave souls out there who truly escaped American life as we know it. He burnt $123 in cash as a statement to himself that he didn’t need money to survive. He cut ties with his family, ignoring their desires to keep them informed with his current location. He hitchhiked. He lived in the woods of Alaska in an abandoned bus. He hunted moose. Christopher underlined phrases in books by Jack London, further preaching his “rage against the machine.” His itchy feet could not settle in civilization, knowing they could reign free in the wild, with trees as companions and dirt as salve. His words are surprisingly profound, “… (So many people) are conditioned to a life of security, conformity and conservatism, all of which may appear to give one peace of mind, but in reality nothing is more damaging to the adventurous spirit within a man than a secure future.” Christopher had an extreme case of what we all at some point have ached for. The throbbing desire to escape. To roam free. To kiss goodbye to deadlines and currency, politics and cubicles. His adventures cost him his life.

       Some criticize Christopher’s decisions understandably, but others applaud his courage. Not only his courage to live off the land on his own, but his courage to die alone in the wilderness without ending his life prematurely by his own weapons laying just inches away. He signed a farewell note and took a final photo, proudly grinning in the midst of his starvation. It’s like he knew that his story might inspire others, as devastating as his death was. I listened to his story from a safe distance, knowing my body would never subject itself to life in the wilderness for long. But his story intrigued me because I have known a few people who dance to his beat of the drum.

       Our souls cry out for peace in this crazy world, and most can steal a minute or two here and there. But there are some amongst us who are too thirsty for adventure to sit around idly and let opportunities pass them by. I think of hikers who spend an entire Saturday climbing up a mountain with children packed on their back and trail mix in hand. Bikers on a trail that spend hours pedaling through tree canopies, listening to the soft whir of the wheels on pavement. I imagine my brother Philip and his wife Loralee camper-vanning in New Zealand, capturing pictures and film of the gorgeous terrain stretched before them. They are brave and they have taken the plunge, preaching a message of “You can do this too” to anyone who asks. With a few sacrifices and two willing spirits, they forage through foreign lands hand in hand. I think of office workers who bring their sandwiches and chips to the bench outside, soaking up a few minutes of sunshine and fresh air on their lunch break. I think of moms who lie their sleeping child down for a nap and settle into the couch with coffee and a book to steal into the silence that is so desperately coveted.

We all have the desire to escape. Some are awarded more time than others. When you find your moment- pursue the beauty. The peace. And when the hunger to find that place comes bubbling up inside of you again- may you be brave to embrace it. 

---------------

For more information about Christopher McCandless: the following website is dedicated to his story. 

http://www.christophermccandless.info/

Book review in article was for "Into the Wild" written by Jon Krakauer. 

https://www.amazon.com/Into-Wild-Jon-Krakauer/dp/0385486804

More Book Reviews: Book Reviews and Book List

A Special Kind of School

       This article was published on the blog for Voyage Retirement-  the agency that I am involved in as a Self-employed Retirement Counselor in Lake County. The blog website is: http://voyageretirement.com/blog/2017/01/12/a-special-kind-of-school/

~~~~~~~~~~

       Lake Hills School is tucked away in Howey-in-the-Hills and although it is a Lake County public school, I hadn’t heard of it before. I viewed the school website but still didn’t realize the full extent of how special this place was. It took a visit there to open my eyes to their hidden operation and feel the magic of the school.

I headed to the Teacher’s Lounge, meeting friendly faces with every minute that passed. The large lounge is set up in the middle of all the action on campus with massive windows that lets you peer into the world around you. Through the left side windows, the outdoor recreation area is brimming with action. On the right you can see the bustle of activity in the cafeteria. Then directly behind is a view of the wide hallway that leads to the classrooms. Within minutes, a student took off running down the hall, teachers racing behind her to lead her gently back to the cafeteria. I met teachers and talked with them about planning for retirement, all while eyeing the playground outside. I became curious about the students when I saw a kid bounce a ball in his own way. And others walked in laps around the playground with a teacher clutching their hand. My eyes fell on a contraption that looked like a swing set for wheelchairs, and I watched amazed as a teacher wheeled a student onto the set and clasped them in for a swinging ride. The student relaxed his head back and admired the clouds. I had never seen anything like it.

Each student walked differently. Shouted things loudly. Held the teacher’s hands for balance and support. Waved to me. I realized that this special needs school housed students suffering from varying physical and mental disabilities. The teachers are extra patient, extra loving, and extra tough. They have a special dose of heart gifted to them in abundance. They are called to this profession, angels sent to kids that need more love and attention than the average student in Lake County. Why are they here and what makes them love their job?

According to Vilmary Tautiva, she says that she could never do for these kids what they do for her. She witnesses unconditional, sacrificial love on a regular basis and her teacher’s heart bursts. Whether it is the way they use their DynaVox to ask someone for a high five or help another student get their jacket on; the kids reach out and even with their disabilities are fully capable of serving and loving others. When the staff suffer a loss of a student, they mourn the short life that was given to one soul to make a difference on this planet. And what a difference these kids make. Their smiles, their progress in academics and social capabilities, their perseverance through difficulties inspire those all around them. Vilmary wouldn’t choose any other place to work.

Teacher of the Year Kristen Kasha beams with joy when she talks about teaching at Lake Hills School. She feels like a freed bird able to explore the world of Assistive Communication and language development. She says, “Everything is a language activity,” and she works actively with her students to push them to that next level. With the support of the principal, curriculum, and specially formatted classes, Kristen feels empowered to gently prod the students to reach their highest potential; whatever level that may be. She takes the privilege of education and gifts it to students that may take a few more days or even years to understand the material. But that gift of interaction means everything to the kids. Kristen and the other teachers are bringing the world to the kids and giving them a chance to engage with subjects like biology or math; using calculators.

The kids at Lake Hills School are 80% non-verbal. They make up the “ICU of education” as Vilmary Tautiva would describe them. Some are missing limbs, some have debilitating physical disabilities, others struggle mentally and physically. Some have low IQ’s, some have higher IQ’s than you would ever guess because they just aren’t able to communicate. There are kids in wheelchairs or that use walkers, and many of them use IPads and DynaVoxes to communicate. These are the kids that the public schools do not have the support to meet their needs, but Lake Hills welcomes with automatic doors and endless accepting hugs. Their staff is chock full of vision specialists, physical therapists, speech therapists, occupational therapists, nurses and a principal that is laser-focused on doing what is best for her school. Principal Robin Meyers leads the school with high expectations and the best curriculum on the market. She personalizes it further to meet the needs of the staff and students.

As an outsider, I am amazed at the work ethic and sheer willpower of these teachers. I initially see the disabilities, not knowing about each student like the teachers do. They work with them for hours each day, seeing past the physical and getting to know the heart beating beneath flesh and bone. Lake Hills School goes beyond education and is making an impact in the lives of these students.

If you want to donate to Lake Hills School, please contact Dr. Robin Meyers at meyersr@lake.k12.fl.us. With the donations, the school provides technology for the students who are learning alternative ways to communicate. Volunteers are always welcome after approval through Lake County. Their next event is Night to Shine: a prom night for special needs students, sponsored by the Tim Tebow Foundation. The local event will be hosted by Real Life Christian Church. Volunteer and guest information can be found here: https://real.life/nts/

Lake Hills School website: http://www.lake.k12.fl.us/lhe

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