Japan Part 1: Math is Universal

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Japan Part 2: Shizuka, Sushi and Strange Showers

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

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

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

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

Sushi.

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

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

Related: Japan Part 1: Math is Universal

Remember

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Football?”

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

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

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

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

I would repeat the same answers over and over again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

Welcome Home

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ride-along: Eight hours on the streets of Dallas

Nothing livened my cubicle life up more than when my favorite client Rector McCollum walked his retired-self through my office doors and plopped into our comfy conference room chairs. Time disappeared as I leaned forward on my elbows listening to his cop stories, riveted by the action and suspense of his life on the streets. His goofy personality drew me in, but his kind words wrapped me up in a big bear hug. He must have sensed my excitement, because he wrote down a phone number on a business card and scooted it in front of me. “Kim, you would love a ride-along.” 

On April 26^th, 2014; I parked at the Audelia Police Station in Dallas, Texas. My head was spinning, my hands were shaking; the anticipation was killing me. Officers Felix and Wilstead snatched me up to ride along in the backseat of Vehicle #2008 for the 3pm-11pm tour. They were young, African American women and they didn’t seem too thrilled. Felix stood at least a head taller and when she looked at me, I instantly felt like a tag along. Wilstead was a few inches shorter but not smiling either. With their uniforms and thick vests, they were beefed up and ready to hit the streets with me as their shadow. 

At first, all I heard were codes and I wondered if I would even understand what was going on. I stared at the stiff laptop situated between them in the front. Every 911 call was listed and the dispatcher assigned the calls to the officers on the field. My officers’ team code was F222. I quickly put myself to work trying to decode the letters, numbers and abbreviations on the screen. Disoriented 80 year old driver on the wrong side of the road. Fire trucks stuck on the road. 17-19 year old black male selling marijuana. Stabbing in the face. 

          Wilson peeked at me and asked the first obvious question. “Do you want to be a cop someday?” I smiled. Being a cop was the furthest idea from my mind. “I am curious to see what it’s really like out there. All I know is what I see on TV.” I had stereotypes that I wanted solidified or thrown out the window, so I started drilling them with questions. The first thing they cleared up for me was the fact that they don’t chase people, contrary to my favorite cop shows. They said it’s not worth the potential injuries. Phenix with one hand on the wheel said, “Oh I will chase them in a car and bump ‘em if they are running away!” She laughed and said she definitely doesn’t hop any fences. They also said they will give the offender “knee strikes” if they aren’t cooperating. I had to look that up and it looks painful. 

Around 5:30pm we stopped at a gas station for snacks. The girls poked around the pickup truck in front of us and saw an open beer can. They waited for the driver and passenger to come out of the store and then pulled them aside. Phenix motioned me to come and I stumbled out of the car, not sure why she called me. They were circled around a young Latino who looked like he was going to pee his pants. He was sitting on the ground against the store wall with his eyes focused on the dirty cement. Phenix was drilling him with questions with no luck. “Do you speak Spanish?” I nodded and my heart quickened. I knelt down to get closer. I wanted to be able to hear his every word and since he was scared; I wanted him to feel like I was a friend instead of an interrogator. I managed to get his name, date of birth, and asked him if he had an ID. Since he was probably only fifteen or sixteen (and probably not a legal immigrant), he didn’t have a driver’s license. He said his school ID was at home. The girls talked some sense into the driver but didn’t write him a ticket. We walked away together with Phenix yelling; “Don’t drink and drive! Get a Driver’s License!”

We drove over to where other cop cars were parked in a rough neighborhood and the girls swapped stories with the cops on tour. They recognized a black male across the street and pulled up his profile on the database. His mug shot stared at me and Wilson had to scroll down through his endless list of offenses. I looked out my window and watched him saunter around the street, purposefully taking the long way around to avoid us. He was a sex offender walking around as a free man and it sickened me. My adventurous ride-along felt somber for the first time.

The sun went down and a stabbing code came across the air. For under a minute, red and blue lights bounced off my window and the familiar sound of police sirens rang in my ears. The thrill surged through me but subsided once we climbed the stairs at the apartment complex. The “stabbing” was just a cut on the leg of an elderly man. He looked rather grumpy when we stepped in the small apartment; probably because there were about ten cops in the room. We shuffled through the pack and left after a short conversation with another officer. After a situation like this, I had some questions for my hosts. Why was a cut leg coded as a stabbing? “That’s the thing.” Wilstead looked over her shoulder to explain some of the issues they face. “We are on the street trying to protect the city and we rely on the information we are given. It’s not always accurate.” I asked her what other pet peeves she had, and she didn’t disappoint me with enthusiasm. “I hate it when I pull someone over for running a stop sign, and they have kids in the backseat. And I always write a ticket if kids aren’t in a car-seat.” I was beginning to understand what the life of a cop is. Their main duties are to answer their calls and patrol the neighborhood. Wilstead summed it up best when she said, “If I can do something in the moment to make somebody feel safe, I have done my job.” 

After filling up the gas tank at a super-secret police gas station in the back woods, we pulled into their headquarters and I expected to get kicked to the curb immediately. Felix asked if I wanted a quick tour of the Police Station and I eagerly agreed. We walked through their beautiful in-house kitchen as Felix explained the story behind it. “Last year there was a rapist on the loose nearby this Police Station. All the families were freaked out, and three women were raped in their homes. We spent weeks patrolling the neighborhood to catch the guy.” I ran my hands across the granite countertops. “We finally arrested him and he was sentenced to 85 years in prison. The neighborhood dropped off food and gifts every day, and they paid to remodel this kitchen.”

I left that night feeling proud to have been able to spend eight hours with two cops who help protect me, and a million other people in one of the biggest cities in America. My respect for police officers grew exponentially after my ride-along, and I will forever be impressed and humbled by their bravery. 

Related: My Cop Buddy

A different Christmas story

The evening was quiet as I made my way up to the roof. The stars twinkled over a sleepy city, and I never tired of the view. My cloak draped over my slender shoulders and I held the oils and cloth in my arms. The cool air welcomed me as I walked toward the corner. The cloak slipped off my shoulders and I quickly sponged in the semi-warm water before it cooled off. My long hair dripped down my back as I tiptoed down the steps to finish my bedtime routine. I wondered how my small living quarters felt so big. Without my husband, the air is empty and the fire not quite warm enough. My heart always aches when he is away at war, but when the sun goes down and all falls silent… Tears are my only warmth. I am without my love. 

A rap at the door snaps my head to the right. I tie my cloak tighter and cross the room in my bare feet. A servant stands in royal garb and motions for me to come outside. “The king requests your presence at once.” My heart caught in my throat and all things important fell from my thoughts. Trembling, I followed his lead. The way was uneventful, given it was past midnight. I was sure this strange summons was concerning my husband who was away at war. What else would the king want with me? I am of no worth to such a powerful man. 

The servant left me in front of a gold plated door. His footsteps lingered down the hall as I watched him leave me destitute. All I wore was my dingy cloak in the elaborate palace. I knew nothing. Fear gripped me and I debated running away. The once closed door opened mysteriously, slowly, and the king stood before me. His eyes were not of power, wealth or war. Instead, I sensed his loneliness. He took my hand. 

I never saw my cloak again. In fact, the thick garment that was given to me in the morning keeps me warmer than I have ever been in my life. As beautiful as it is, it is a reminder of the insistence of one powerful king. That night broke my heart. It broke my vow to my husband, though I was at the hand of the king’s bidding. It broke my respect for the king. I didn’t even have the words to stand up for myself. I didn’t have the courage. I didn’t have the chance… The king’s mind was made up. 

Servants from the palace rushed to my garden weeks later to inform me that my husband walked through the courts to see the king. I instantly smiled, as I didn’t expect him home for months! But as I washed my hands and tidied the kitchen, fear gripped me. I was still sorting out what had happened that night on the roof and I didn’t know how to tell my husband that he was to be the father to a baby without his eyes or his gentle spirit. I touched my stomach and stared out the window. Who should I talk to? What can I do to avoid further pain? I cleaned and cooked anyway, waiting for the door to burst open at any second. I laid on the mat when nausea swept over me. The cool washcloth gave me chills that were already present. What will I say to him? My innocent and naïve husband; He doesn’t deserve this. 

The door never opened and his side of the mat never warmed. Word came to my door sometime after from the same soldier, but with heavy hands and slight hesitation. My husband was killed in battle. My fatherless womb cried out and I crumpled to the ground. Close friends ushered me inside and cared for my every immediate need. But they could not touch my soul. They could not heal my wounds inside because they didn’t know. My pride and confusion prevented me from confiding in them. 

I kept my secret tight within as I gathered my belongings and kissed my neighbors goodbye. The living quarters took my breath away, but I still wasn’t sure why I was here. My husband is dead and silk sheets are supposed to replace him? I ran my fingers across the tassels on the pillows and glanced out the window. Pain shot into my gut, and it wasn’t just the baby moving. My tears were barely dried when someone showed up at my door. It was the king. I brushed hair away from my face and dared to look at him. He walked toward me and took my hand like the first night. I resisted the urge to pull away, but once again I was under his power. 

“I am sorry to hear about your husband. Please, you are now my wife. Everything you need is here, no need to beg. What can I have brought for you, my darling?” My lip trembled and words choked. As calmly as I could, I let his embrace prove to be my new home as tears of grief fell down my cheeks. 

After our child was born, my new husband looked at our son with sadness and grief, as if he knew something I didn’t. Before I had a chance to ask, the babe fell ill with a fever that couldn’t be contained. I stayed with nurses and my firstborn child day and night. After seven brief days on this earth, his spirit left me alone once again. The product of the awful confusion from that night could have been my salvation. He could have been a beautiful blessing that drew our family closer together. He could have grown into a strong, fearless leader with rights to the throne. But instead, I was left to ask why our son was gone. I received my answer but it wasn’t what I wanted to hear. My husband confessed his intentions in a poetic letter to me, and he later spoke with me in person so I could see it in his eyes. The truth cut deep but made sense all at the same time. His sins had caused the pain and division in our broken family. The king had fallen, and he knew it. 

I lost my innocence. I lost my husband. I lost my firstborn child and was married to the man who solely was to blame for all of it; all in the same year. I told God that I was too young for this. I felt the sting of an unfair hand dealt to me, but I knew in some way that the plan was bigger than me. It took days. Years. It took more children and a forgiven husband to salve my wounds. A powerful king can do whatever he wants, and King David sure did. But the powerful, Almighty King of Kings by His mercy and grace will accomplish His perfect will. In no other kingdom do we trust. 

-Bathsheba

Mother of Solomon

Family Line of Jesus Christ, Son of God, Savior of the world. 

Merry Christmas

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

Kevin and Kim: Rewind to the beginning

One of my favorite dating memories from college was when Kevin surprised me by secretly buying a Valentines’ Day singing telegram. It was not something that anyone expected from a shy introvert like Kevin, so he had me fooled.

It was 2009. Our busy college lives seemed to keep us apart rather than together, so a date night was heavenly. I turned off my ever-buzzing phone and took a deep breath in the booth at Applebee’s. Suddenly, a group of three guys barged into the restaurant searching for us. Rick, one of the loudest and craziest students on campus, stomped through the rows wearing a life-size Cupid costume. Diaper included. He brought his goons along, carrying a boom box in one hand, and a dozen roses in the other. My face reddened and I could not believe my eyes. Rick set the CD player on the table, handed me the flowers and pressed play. “And IIIIIIII will always love yooouuuu!” The three college bachelors howled through the Whitney Houston song for a very long minute, drawing the attention of tables all around. My boyfriend hired these horrendous songbirds to come serenade me? I filled the air with laughter. The boys accepted the gracious applause from me and other amused patrons, bowed and took their leave. Kevin’s wide smile told me that this was exactly what he wanted.

Flashing back to May of 2007; Kevin Patton and I didn’t fall in love at first sight. But we were happy to meet each other for the first time. I hopped out of a mini-van and shook his hand. I had heard stories about him because he was best friends with my then boyfriend who lived in the same dorm. We put a face with a name and left it at that. Little did I know, we would become the three musketeers during the fall semester when I moved to campus as a freshman at Tennessee Temple University in Chattanooga, Tennessee.  

I quickly merged into the boys’ core group of friends. I observed Kevin at a safe distance nearly every day. He was a mysteriously quiet kid with occasional sarcastic quips under his sleeve. He wore simple collared shirts, a brown track jacket and carpenter jeans. It didn’t take long to discover how much we had in common and how comfortable we were in each other’s presence. I loved the freedom of running around the greens with a bunch of college dudes, playing Ultimate Frisbee and football every spare afternoon.

The coffee shop held our Three Musketeer lunches at least twice a week. Boyfriend. Girlfriend. And non-awkward third wheel. I begged my class to finish quicker so I could prance across the street and order my greasy hamburger. The friendship between us three was real and very special. We joked and laughed constantly, and they also both helped me spiritually. At 18 years old, I had a list of neatly stacked theological questions on a turquoise paper that I went through with them. Leaving my hometown pushed me to think for myself, and I needed to tackle doubt head on. The boys were patient with me and didn’t hand me straight up answers. They probed my questions with more questions and challenged me to be okay with not knowing the answers.

I can only imagine my reaction if someone from the future had walked up to my table and announced:

“Kim. You aren’t going to marry him” pointing at my boyfriend…

“You are going to marry him” pointing at Kevin Patton.

I would have grunted in disbelief. What? That’s insane. There’s no way.

One night as our little group walked to the girls’ dorm for Open Dorms night, Kevin mentioned a passage in the New Testament regarding women. His theological explanation stuck out to me as more profound than just a regular college kid. I saw a glimpse of the depth in Kevin’s thought process and it stopped me in my tracks. After Open Dorms, I scribbled an after-thought in my journal about Kevin. I mentioned what he said and then confidently wrote, “His wife is going to be so lucky.” I had NO idea that the lucky one would be me. In five short months, Kevin would shuffle from the background to center stage.

One day at dinner, Kevin was casually asked to fill in for Bible Study on Thursday. The Bible Study was normally an acoustic-driven, discussion-based hour. Kevin jumped at the chance to lead the Bible study as a sub. “How much time do I have?” The leader looked confused. “Uh, whatever you need.” Kevin confidently said he would take forty minutes. I furrowed my eyebrows, wondering why he was so picky about the timing.

Thursday night came, and I sat in the coffee shop with about 6-7 others, not sure what to expect. Kevin passed out a packet to everyone at 7pm sharp. For forty minutes, I listened intently as the nice, quiet kid preached to each one of us sitting around that table. He talked about the greatness of God throughout creation, and with every word I became more convinced of God’s character and absolute control in our lives. Kevin’s words were filled with passion and direction, and he took us all on a journey that rendered me speechless. I left the coffee shop in awe, hearing a side of Kevin that I never expected. He was shaping into a person that surprised and impressed me at every turn.

Months passed after the first blissful semester of my college experience. A curve in the road came out of nowhere and I nearly flew off the cliff. My relationship of three years ended, leaving me confused and hurt. It was a respectful break-up but I didn’t know what to do next. Our trio was ruined and I avoided the boys to protect my heart from further pain. Dinners with friends were now awkward, and I huddled close to my best friend Jen, wondering if she would leave me too. She didn’t. I will never forget what she said when I complained yet again, apologizing for keeping her away from the boys. Her short blonde hair framed her beautiful, friendly face and her eyes didn’t betray her words. “You are more important to me than boys right now.” I was depriving her of memories, yet she chose our friendship instead. I was guilt-ridden, wondering if she were in my position… would I have been as kind to her? I honestly didn’t know.

But the stupid thing was, Kevin stayed on my mind. Constantly. Each morning I woke up and wondered when I would see him that day. Maybe I wouldn’t talk to him, but I wanted desperately to see him; even just the back of his head in chapel. It took a few months for him to send an email, telling me that he missed seeing me. What once was normal had disappeared, and I was comforted to know that it affected him too. The poor kid was happy playing third wheel, and he missed our times together.

One day through email, Kevin promised to show up at the coffee shop after basketball that night to see me. I “studied” in the balcony, hoping that the next squeak of the door would be him, bounding up to my table with a smile. Well, he showed up all right. His sweaty self sat right in front of me and his blue eyes were even brighter from the exertion. When I casually admitted that I was waiting for him, he blew me off with one sarcastic quip that I couldn’t get past. “I am just here to get some water.” He lifted the plastic cup to his lips and I nodded slowly. Hmm. He’s just getting water. The sweet kid had just offended me, pushing a button that brought out something feisty. I called him the next day and asked him to meet me outside because we had to talk.

“You called?” He casually staggered down the steps. I was pacing in my school clothes: dress pants and tiny heels.

“Yes. We need to talk about what happened last night.” I was all business. “ You can’t mess with me like that. It may not seem like a big deal to you…” The embarrassing honesty continued, but I trusted him with my truth. “I put myself out there for you last night and you blew me off. It’s still early. My heart can’t handle games right now.” I paused and moved forward with my point. “What is this thing that we are doing? What are you expecting?” He was caught, but dealt with the question gracefully. His hands were stuffed in his pockets and he took a second to gather his thoughts.  

“I am obviously attracted to you. I see possibility. But I am not thinking long-term.” His words dripped sweet then stung, because he had been hijacking my thoughts since January! My emotions were clearly a little ahead of his. So I catered to his logical side and pushed him to make a decision. “So what should we do?” He lifted his leg and propped it on the stone bench, hands still in his pockets. He looked into the distance. “Let’s just hang out by ourselves. We’ve never done that before, so let’s give it a try and see what happens.” As much as I liked the idea of spending some time together, I knew that it was risky, given my past relationship with his best friend. Our school was small, and the status of couples was always a hot topic. We wouldn’t be able to hide from them for long. “Alright, deal.” He smiled, and I felt better knowing that we at least had clear direction. “Wanna go to dinner?” I nodded, and we bravely walked into the unknown together.

We may not have fallen in love at first sight, but two weeks of one-on-one was enough to prove that we had something special. We spent a Monday night in the library, a Thursday night in the coffee shop, and even two hours standing in the rain. We talked about our families, our hometowns, our loves and hates, college, our faith… the questions on our mind were answered, and each discussion confirmed our growing and very personal connection.

May 8^th, 2008 marked our first official date off campus. The only reason it was declared a date was because Kevin bought food: Pringles and Propel. (I am a cheap date). We walked around Coolidge Park, sat on a blue bench and looked at the moon.

We knew in just a few days we would be writing “Have a good summer!” in each other’s yearbooks. We had no idea it would be our first of three long summers apart.

We spent the summer separately ministering, scattered across several states; but our nation’s Independence Day was circled on the calendar. We were both scheduled to be in Atlanta, Georgia and Kevin wanted me to meet his family. The night before July 4^th, I made a strict, no-nonsense, all business list. I was so dead serious about figuring out if this thing with Kevin was the real deal. The possibility of love again scared me, and I still carried the weight of a broken relationship. I didn’t want to drag Kevin into something that I couldn’t emotionally handle.

I had to know if I was going to marry this Georgia boy or not. Because if I didn’t have the peace of marriage, I wasn’t about to set myself up for a second heartbreak.

July 4^th was a beautiful day. My pink v-neck was thin because of the Georgia heat, and my white shorts were simple and playful. I shut the back door behind me and scampered down the steep hill, careful not to slip on the dried pine needles. Kevin waited for me in the parking lot, and I met his family. We all drove to Red Top Mountain State Park for a picnic lunch and hiking. Kevin took me on a walk through the park, and we took our first picture together. We climbed down stairs to the beach and spent a few minutes watching the sun glint off of the water. The hours we spent that day confirmed to both of us that our prayers were answered. 

On August 13^th, 2008, Kevin asked me to be his co-pilot; his girlfriend. I was anxious to start making memories together and of course accepted his request. What started out as a new taboo couple on campus, turned into what was supposed to happen all along. Who would have thought?

          

From that point on, we knew we were going to get married. Couples probably shouldn’t talk about that early in their dating period, but we broke that rule without a care. The wedding date was set for ASAP, mainly graduation. College was busy, stressful, and emotionally exhausting. Our dating life consisted of eating dinner in the cafeteria with friends, sitting in church or chapel together-(when I wasn’t working), playing Ultimate Frisbee, and attempting to study in the library. We didn’t always have access to a car or free time to even go off campus. College was rough to say the least, and we both looked forward to our future together beyond school.

Our timeline was looking like December of 2010, an untimely collision with my graduation date. After Christmas break in 2009, I dreaded another entire year of waiting, so I crunched some numbers. I realized that it would be cheaper to live off campus with Kevin. So that meant an early wedding. And an early proposal. When I looked at the calendar, I didn’t see much time. I had to put my stats in front of Kevin. Despite my Mom’s efforts to convince me to let Kevin be a gentleman, I took matters into my own hands.  

Once again at school together, we plopped down in the field by the gym, and I started picking at the grass. This could be awkward, but I trusted him and was confident that he would hear me out without judgment. “Kevin, this is weird. But I figured out how much I am going to have to dish out this Fall, and it’s cheaper for us… to live together. So that would mean a summer wedding. Then I will only have one semester left, and I won’t have to plan a wedding while cramming 18 credits in before Christmas.” He nodded. He asked a few questions. Then he turned to me and said,  “We should probably get engaged then.” We hugged in agreement, and I headed back to my dorm to calm my anxious heart. Was this really happening?

February rolled around, and Kevin was still pretty quiet about our little deal. Unfortunately, I said yes to a weekend trip to Alabama with my friend Summer because I was tired of keeping an open schedule for Kevin’s proposal. But regret stung me to the core when I saw the look on Kevin’s face when I told him my plans. “Kim, you can’t go. Sunday is the day.” My heart plummeted and I immediately reacted in anger. College had beat us up and heavily impacted our dating life, and this was disgusting icing on an unfair cake dealt to both of us. We were crushed.

I approached my friend. “Summer, you can’t tell anyone… But I need to be back on campus by Sunday so that Kevin can propose.” Her eyes widened and she hugged me. “Kim, I’d do anything for you. It will be a quick trip, but I will bring you back in time.” I breathed a sign of relief and smiled. My dreams were about to come true!

So what does a guy do when his girlfriend knows he is about to propose? He blindfolds her. With his church tie. Kevin weaved around the back roads of Chattanooga so I wouldn’t pick up on which highway he was getting on. (I had no clue where we were going anyway). Kevin opened the door for me and took my hand to Red Top Mountain State Park. It was a sweet reminder of the day that we took our first picture together, and the day we both received the confirmation we had been waiting for.

Now, his proposal technique was tricky. Because he knew that I knew that he was proposing, he actually “fake proposed” two times before he popped the question. He asked me to Homecoming and Six Flags. After Six Flags, I was dreadfully confused and we were running out of beautiful spots in the park. At last we came up to the swimming area, but we were met with a fence. The sun was slowly falling but it was still an hour or so until sunset. The place was empty, and he turned to me to start his speech. He even had a reason to get down on one knee- reminding me that he used to fake-tie-his-shoe when waiting for me to come out of dinner. Sometimes he tied and untied his shoes for fifteen minutes. My almost fiancé knelt down to lift a ring box from a rubber band around his ankle. (Ouch!) He popped it open, revealing a gorgeous, diamond-studded ring and asked me to marry him. It was so beautiful, I thought it was fake! 

We heard a faint “Congratulations!” from strangers nearby. My eyes were glued to my new ring, counting all the minuscule diamonds. He looked at me and asked, “Do you want to go to Atlanta? It’s only a half hour drive from here.” I called my parents and as many brothers as I could, as well as two bridesmaids. We surprised his parents in the middle of choir practice, and enjoyed a celebratory dinner afterwards. I came home late into the dorm that night and my friend Summer flashed me a big smile while I flashed my ring. I was so proud of her for keeping tight lips.

On July 30^th, 2010, my favorite girls in the world surrounded me in a back room as I opened a hand-delivered card from my soon-to-be husband. The grueling days of waiting were over and at 6:30pm, my Dad walked me down the aisle so I could hold the hand of my future. My unexpected love. Kevin beamed in his borrowed white tux, and preached his own Gospel message during the ceremony. I stood there proudly in my tight dress trying to breathe, and I couldn’t have been more proud. He kissed me and carried me down the aisle and made me a Patton. We hugged our guests, ate our colorful cake, and ran underneath a bridge of arms to embark on forever together.

I didn’t know Kevin was for me. I used to scout out the Bible college boys and check them off my list according to why I wouldn’t marry them. The problem was, every time my mind wandered to Kevin… I couldn’t think of a legitimate reason not to marry him. There wasn’t one. God plucked Kevin Patton from Atlanta, Georgia, and Kim Carrel from Grand Rapids, Michigan and landed us both at TTU. He led us, whispered truth to our hearts and struck a match of a deep mutual love that brought us together. And with His guidance and grace, we will never separate.   

Kevin and Kim. Patton magic... 'till death do us part.