K is for...

K is for Kimball – betcha didn’t see that one coming…

Last Sunday, one of the points in the sermon was that we all make sacrifices when we marry, that, when we choose to enter into a marriage, we are choosing to set aside some of our own agendas, our own dreams, and our own passions for the sake of the other.  The pastor gave as an example his own wife who had dreamed of living in Africa.  However, when she married him, she gave up that dream because that was not his dream. 

I think this example struck a chord with many of us.   It certainly made me think.  What did I ‘give up,’ what did I sacrifice when I married my husband? 

When I graduated from high school, I had my whole life planned out.  First, I was going to graduate from the university with a theater degree and then head off to Broadway where I would become a famous (nonmusical) stage actress, all the while maintaining my Christian principles and integrity.  But, that didn’t quite work out.  A few months into college, I became disheartened with my major.  The people were shallow, fickle and two-faced.  The professors were asking us to do silly, meaningless things like lay on the floor and become one with the cement.  And, not only that, but they were actually assigning work.  Work.  Drama wasn’t supposed to be work.  And the more I was in the field, the less I liked it.  The pleasure I once experienced on the stage was turning into work and I was beginning to hate my craft.  So I decided to try something else.  I became a teacher. 

But, somewhere, along the way, I lost my way.  I allowed myself to be swept up in the lifestyles of my peers until one day I woke up and discovered I didn’t know who I was anymore.  The person I thought I was going to become with her integrity and Christian values intact had disappeared and I was left living with someone I did not recognize.  Love, compassion, and self-confidence were replaced with shame, guilt and fear.  I hated who I had become and was confident that everyone else would too.

By the time I met my husband, I had a laundry list of regrets, a suitcase full of poor choices and a closet of secrets to offer to him.  And, he chose to love me anyway.  He did not treat me like the person I had become, because he saw in me who I was becoming.  He did not become disgusted with all of the stuff I was bringing to our marriage, but slowly overtime, he has helped me give it all up.  By marrying my husband I gave up insecurity, a low self-esteem and shame.

My husband is playful and I am serious.  He is motivated by knowledge and I like emotion.  He is an athlete and I like to sit - a lot.  He is the one who has had to sacrifice.  He wanted to live a life with minimal ties, so he was always free to go wherever God might call.  But now, we have a mortgage, pets, a car payment and ‘real’ jobs.  And he has done all of this because of his commitment to me, because he loves me.  He treats his role as both father and husband seriously, in that he does whatever needs to be done to meet our needs – no matter what it costs him.  Whether it is going with the kids to a midnight movie – on a work night, fixing dinner so I can work late, working overtime to pay extra bills, or playing pretty pretty princess for the 1000th time, if it needs to be done, he will do it.

My husband is an amazing man and I am blessed to be his wife.  I see how he sacrifices for me, for our family every day and I am grateful.

K is also for Kimberly

When I was pregnant with our second daughter, I knew she was going to be strong.  Whenever she would stick an arm or an elbow in my ribs and I would try to push it into a more comfortable position, she would simply put it right back wherever it was – and throw in a little shove.  I would then gently move it out of the way again, only to have her put it right back and there it would stay – no matter how uncomfortable it made me.  She has been making her presence known since day one – and I am so glad she has.

Kimm is energetic and passionate and smart.  For Christmas this year she gave me a ‘jar of memories.’  It had 100 slips of paper in it and I was to read one a day for 100 days.  Some were touching, some were fun but all of them gave me a daily reminder of how much she has blessed my life.  It was hard not to read more than one a day but I managed to reread some and stretch it out for a little more than 100 days.

She is funny and athletic and has an unwavering faith that is encouraging to all.  She is a leader, she is beautiful and she has a compelling desire to serve God.  As an 18 year-old just starting out her life, she has turned down colleges and scholarships so that she can go to Nicaragua and care for orphans, work against sextrade in Malaysia, and give encouragement and training to pastors in Kenya. 

She is not a perfect child.  If anyone is going to get into an argument in our home, it will almost always be the two of us.  She is her own person and does not respond well to my ‘suggestions’ about how I think she should do her homework, clean her room or take care of her responsibilities.  She does things her way – and her way works.  Sometimes I think she could have raised herself and done it better. 

She has taught me to be flexible, impulsive and to not take life so seriously.  She has shown me that we are individual creations of God and who don’t fit into premade molds.  She has given me patience, strength, and shown me repeatedly that I am still a work in progress with much to learn.

She graduates from high school in a few weeks and a few days after that she heads to Haiti where she will help with some of the ongoing earthquake relief.  In September she leaves again on her mission trip that will take her to far off places and won’t be home for 8 months.  And even in her absence she will continue to teach me.  I won’t be able to check in with her each day to make sure she is ok, comfort her if she gets sick, or tell her she is loved.  I will have to trust that God will bring all of those things to her as He continues to care for her on the other side of the world.  I know He can do it – He’s been doing it for the last 18 years. 

E is for...

When I was in college I would visit my grandfather who lived in a convalescent home. I liked visiting with my grandfather, but I hated the smell and the sounds of where he lived. It wasn’t that it was a bad place – but the whole place reeked with the smell of cleaning supplies and soiled beds. Hallways were jammed with white haired people whose heads bopped up and down while they dozed on and off in their wheelchairs. Their crinkled hands folded in their laps, moving slowly to wipe the corners of their mouths while television sets tuned loudly to random stations would drown out the wails of some. Each time I would visit, I would stop before entering the building and take a deep breath – both to steel my nose and to strengthen my resolve. Then, I would open the door and head to his room as fast as I could. I looked neither left nor right so that I did not have to see the people in the hallway. I kept my vision focused so I would not have to respond to anyone’s calls or comments. I was there to see my grandpa. My feet knew where to go and I could make it in 22 seconds – right before I needed to take another breath. But when I went with my father, it was a much different experience.

I remember the first time quite clearly. As we came within reach of the door to the building, I took my usual deep breath and prepared to move as quickly as possible to my grandfather’s room where I could breathe again. But when my dad opened the door, he turned to the right AWAY from his father’s room. He walked straight into another resident's room, and greeted the woman lying in her bed – by her name as if he belonged there. He took her ancient hand in his and squeezed it softly. He asked about her children and her grandchildren. They talked about her great-granddaughter that had just been born. He stayed with her for only a few minutes – but to me, an impatient 18 year-old, it felt like an eternity. “What are you doing?” I wondered. “We’re here to see grandpa – let’s go!”

He left her and he walked to the doorway of the next room. He called out to the bald headed man wearing a baseball cap, who was seated in his wheelchair. He was sleeping to the blaring sounds of a Bonanza rerun and did not respond. My father walked up to him, touched him gently on the arm, and said his name again. The man startled slightly, then broke into a huge grin and grabbed my father’s arm and welcomed him. They spoke for a while about baseball and players and teams and who was going win the pennant. And again my impatience swelled up within me and I tried to move him towards the door. “Grandpa,” I muttered to myself. “We are here to see grandpa!”

After we left his room, we stopped again, and again and again. My father proceeded to greet everyone who sat in the hall, who lounged in their room, or who was meandering in the corridors with their walkers, by their names. He would stop, bend down, touch their hands, pat their arms and chat with each of them as if he knew them. And the walk to my grandfather’s room took over half an hour. Although I managed to keep a smile on my face and join my father in saying hello to each and every single person, I was beyond irritated by the time we got to my grandfather's room. My father paused for a moment at my grandfather's door, “You know, Susan,” he said, “for some of these people, I am their only visitor. Many of the people in here don’t have family nearby, or their family is just too busy – or too disinterested to take the time to visit. For some of these people, I’m the only one who sees them.”

And I was instantly both ashamed and amazed by that simple, but profound comment –“I’m the only one who sees them.” There have been so many times in my life when all I needed was just to be seen, to be noticed – when all I wanted was someone to look me in the eyes and say, “I know you are here. I see you. You are not alone.” I've always known that there were many qualities I wanted to ‘inherit’ from my father – but on that day I wanted none more so than his eyes.

Being seen is powerful. It makes us feel human, respected, treasured, loved. It can validate our worth. It can lighten whatever burden or pain we are carrying. When I see someone, truly see them, I am acknowledging that they have value, that their existence matters. I am still so not good at this ‘seeing’ thing. I still get wrapped up in my own agenda, my own problems, my own priorities, and I still fail more often than not to see the people around me. But as I grow older, and hopefully wiser, I am learning to see the people in my world. All the people, not just the ones I know. Random people, strangers, I need to see them just as much as the ones I love. And I mean really see them, look them in the eyes, touch their arm, shake their hand, and hopefully let them know they have significance. They have worth. They are valued and they are not alone.

E is for my Father’s Eyes…