Yolande's story

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                        

                  

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

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

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

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

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

                         








         

    

Related: Kevin and Kim: Rewind to the Beginning

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