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. 

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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/

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       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

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