Best love

It was 14 years ago that, with two words, I did the smartest thing I’ve ever done in my life: I said, “I do” to my wife, Kathy.

The memories of that mild December day are fresh: the overcast skies; the beautiful church; my daughter all decked out in a navy-blue velvet dress; the humorous homily by our minister.

Mostly what I remember, though, is how my wife took my breath away. I saw her in that gorgeous white gown coming down the aisle with her dad escorting her. Life’s path to that point for me, a 42-year-old widow with a nine-year old daughter, was a winding one. Everyone’s path through life meanders, but what counts is how you handle the curves.

When I saw my wife coming toward me at the altar, I was awestruck by the grace of God. Why in the world was I given a second chance at happiness? The first one was incredible, but short-lived. My breath was taken away as I saw Kathy that Dec. 19, but there also was an innate calmness, a confidence, that we were meant to be together.

Since then, well, let’s just say my wife still takes my breath away. Even when her professional world is closing in on her – patients, paperwork, etc. – she still can smile, laugh and make our family whole and complete. I don’t know why I have been blessed with such an incredible woman in my life, but I am eternally grateful that God saw fit to bestow his grace upon my soul.

July 19

I remember the day most vividly when it’s hot, like it is now. The heat of that summer, 1986, was different than other summers because of the lack of humidity. Where now you can work up a healthy sweat in a matter of seconds, back 26 summers ago there seemed to be no moisture in the air here in Upstate South Carolina. It hadn’t rained for more than a month as dawn broke on July 19, 1986.

I didn’t have too many cares that morning, other than the one to make sure I got to the church on time because July 19, 1986 was the day I got married to Elaine Russell.

I look back on that day now fondly because of the funny things that happened that day and the day before and the joy of saying “I do” with a woman who was so loving and so sweet and so genuine.

I remember worrying about my friends from the Northeast who had never experienced that kind of heat for any length of time.

I remember my brother, the wine expert, asking the waiter at the rehearsal dinner to put some ice in his wine. In a hushed tone, the waiter said, “Sir we usually serve this wine at room temperature.” My brother’s reply? “Yeah, but the room temperature is 85!”

I remember playing golf the day of the rehearsal dinner when the temperature was 103. The only thing that was green on that course was the putting surfaces, the Bermuda grass in the fairways having died of thirst a few weeks before.

I remember sitting in the pastor’s office waiting for the ceremony to begin, and the pastor saying, “Well, it’s 1:54, almost time.” My brother, my best man, jokingly said, “Yeah, let’s synchronize our watches.” With a stone face, the pastor said, “My wife and I already have.”

I remember my sister-in-law’s husband checking with the wedding director, the pastor’s wife, to see if it was time to light the candles. She looked at her watch and said, “No, it’s not time.” He turns, walks the few steps back to his post as an usher, only to see the pastor’s wife immediately motion him back over and say, “Steve, it’s time to light the candles.”

I remember it was so hot that instead of entering the sanctuary from the customary right side, the pastor, my brother and I entered from his office off to the left because we would’ve had to go outside in 106 degree heat wearing  cutaway tuxes.

I remember both Elaine and I getting a case of the giggles as we recited the vows. I remember really concentrating and trying not to laugh. As soon as the pastor said, “I now pronounce you man and wife.” I turned with my wife on my arm, but noticed a kind of pregnant pause behind me. Then the recessional played and all seemed OK. The only thing I forgot to do was … kiss my new wife!

I remember my 3-year-old nephew coming up and telling me, in a very concerned and serious tone, “Uncle Mark, somebody put rice in your car.” I knelt down and told him it was OK, they were supposed to do that.

I remember that as friends and family were getting ready to “decorate” our car, one of the ushers asked if anybody had any lipstick. Elaine’s best friend then opened her purse, produced a cosmetic counter-amount of the stuff and said, “What shade do you need?”

Those are good memories, ones that I will take with me the rest of my days.

But one memory, a melancholy one, is the knowledge that the marriage was destined to last only 10 years, 3 months and 11 days because the loving and  genuine and sweet woman left this life the day before Halloween 1996.

Weep not. My heart is truly filled with gratitude to God for the time we had. It was a good time. It was July 19, 1986, and I remember it like it was yesterday.

A couple of irregular Joes

As I get ready to celebrate my 55^th Christmas, I’m drawn to the story about Joseph, Jesus’ earthly father. Or, more precisely, I’m drawn to the lack of stories about him. Hardly anything is known about this man, a simple carpenter and laborer in first century Nazareth.

There was a movie released a few years ago, “The Nativity Story” which attempted to paint a fuller picture of Joseph, a man betrothed to another man’s young daughter, Mary. While the Biblical accuracy, like nearly every movie Hollywood has made based on Scripture, is questionable, the humanity of Joseph – his shock at learning Mary was pregnant, his revelation of the truth from the angel and his ultimate devotion to Mary and soon-to-be born son – comes shining through. This celluloid Joseph comes across as resilient, making the best of his circumstances and maintaining a strong faith in God.

I also am reminded of another “Joe,” not very well known by his family when he was younger but who had a life-altering experience in middle age. He’s well into his senior years now, ready to celebrate his 87^th birthday three days before Christmas. Joe has been tested by circumstances beyond his control: the death of his mother, father, brothers, first wife and a daughter-in-law. Joe’s mid-life decision to trust and worship God was not an easy one. Often, he struggled to see the light of the world. But he persevered and, with help, became a better person, Christian, husband and father.

The cobwebs of vascular dementia now tie his mind, but enough of who Joe is and how far he has come are evident for all. When I visit him, I think of how our roles have essentially reversed: I, along with my brother and sisters, am now the parent and he is the child. But, like that other “Joe” of 2,000 years ago, Dad’s faith in God is resilient. The candle may grow short, but the light shines before everyone. Let us praise our fathers here, and our Father in heaven.

Funny Grandpa Joe

My son started to laugh at the gas station. That’s kind of an odd place to get a case of the giggles, but there the 10-year-old was in the backseat of the minivan having a hard time containing himself. It started before I stopped at that pump to fill up the car, it continued when he got out to clean the windshields, and it didn’t stop for another five minutes.

“What are you laughing at?” I asked with a smile.

“Oh, nothing,” he said.

“He’s got a case of the sillies,” said my 85-year-old father.

“Boy, you got that right,” I said.

Robby and I had arrived in Nashville to visit Dad who has been battling aging issues since November. School starts in another week or so, and it was my turn to visit Dad. So Robby and I made the 350-mile trip to see him and Momma.

As usual, one of the first subjects after we greeted one another was “What’s for dinner?” The tradition, if a nine-month habit can be called a tradition, was to take Dad out for lunch and dinner each day. It was great for him to get out of the assisted living facility in Nashville, but it wreaks havoc on our waistlines.

“I got a taste for seafood,” Dad said. So the Red Lobster in suburban Cool Springs was our destination. Dad went for the whole hog, in this case lobster, Robby had one of the combo plates, and I settled for salmon.

It was after dinner that we pulled into the gas station. I stopped the car, looked out the window and realized I had picked the diesel pump. “Whoops. That’s diesel,” I said. “Damn diesel,” Dad said.

When you’re 85 and you have some mild vascular dementia, your leash is pretty long. You can say and do things and get away with them that other people cannot. Such was the case with the “Damn diesel” comment.

But 10-year-old boys senses of humor are tickled by bodily functions and swear words. Robby just lost it when Dad said, “Damn diesel.”

Robby revealed this to me the next day. “Grandpa is just so funny,” Robby said.

That “bond” only strengthened in the coming days. My son is not exactly noted for his work ethic, just like almost every other 10-year-old American boy. But a change came over him when he was around “Grandpa Joe” as he calls Dad.

He didn’t have to be told to get Grandpa Joe’s walker. Robby just got it.

He didn’t have to be asked to help his Grandpa Joe out of the car. Robby was there putting his little hand in the middle of a massive back to get Grandpa Joe going.

He didn’t have to be told to escort Grandad up to his room. Robby just did it.

“I like helping Grandpa,” Robby said.

“I like seeing you help him, son,” I replied.

“He really is a good boy. He is so helpful,” Grandpa Joe said.

A bond between a grandfather and grandchild is one of the most precious things we witness in our lives. I had that a little bit with my maternal grandfather, but these moments I get to cherish between “Grandpa Joe” and Robby remind me of what I missed … and what someday I will witness again, maybe with my own grandson.

Jane Wall's horn

The horn always sounded at the same times every weekday. At 8 a.m. and 3 p.m., the white passenger van would pull up across the street in front of Bill and Jane’s house and the driver would give a long blast on the horn.

After the horn sounded in the morning, the front door to Bill and Jane’s house would open and out would come Jane pushing her adult, wheelchair-bound daughter, Jane Wall, out to the street. The driver would carefully place Jane Wall in her wheelchair onto the motorized lift, and Jane would say goodbye, tenderly caressing Jane Wall’s face or shoulders. When the horn sounded in the afternoon, Jane – eternally smiling – would come out to welcome Jane Wall from a day at a center for physically and mentally disabled people.

Jane and Bill’s daughter contracted Reye’s Syndrome 30 years ago when she was about 3. A smiling, healthy and energetic child, Jane Wall’s condition left her with immense physical and mental disabilities. The easy way out would’ve been to simply institutionalize Jane Wall, and then Bill and Jane could sink their energy into raising their son.

But Jane and Bill are not cut from that cloth; there’s nothing in their makeup that would allow them to “give up” in such a fashion. I talked to Jane about that a number of years ago, and Jane simply replied, “Well, she was our baby. We couldn’t do that to her.”

So Bill and Jane raised Jane Wall with as much love, devotion and care as anyone. It was awe-inspiring when they would bring her to neighborhood parties, and everyone would be making a fuss over the brown-haired woman with the crooked smile. Jane Wall never said a word, simply looking at people and smiling. On occasion, she would laugh or show her displeasure, but she spent every night in her parents’ house, safe and secure from a world that too often seems cold and cruel.

Last week, Jane Wall contracted pneumonia. Delicate as a rare flower, Jane Wall put up a brave struggle for survival, but in the end she was called to a higher purpose. She departed Monday morning, surrounded by the family who loved her so much. What Jane and Bill may not know is how much of an inspiration they are to friends and neighbors; how their simple grace under pressure for three decades inspired generations fortunate enough to know them and love them.

Mornings and afternoons still will come each day in our neighborhood, but the missing sound of a horn from a white passenger van will signal a void in our lives. But if you open your heart and listen closely, you can hear the clarion call of heavenly horns heralding the arrival of Jane Wall.

Happy Valentine's Day, Kathy, Part 2

Last time, I wrote about the wonderful qualities of my wife, Kathy. Her joy of life and tenderness of spirit has brightened the lives of innumerable people, most notably myself, our son and our daughter. She often reads with our son, Robby, as part of his daily homework, but she’d want to do it regardless of whether it was an assignment. When she spends time with him, or any of us, her whole world seems brighter.

That innate ability to connect with people has served her so well in her profession: medical oncology. As the picture I have painted shows, Kathy is so much more than just a physician. But the branch of medicine she chose suits her gifts impeccably.

A few weeks after Kathy and I became engaged (after just two months of dating), a lunchtime question from a colleague came out of the blue. The question hung in the air for a moment as I pondered what my colleague asked: “How does Kathy stop from getting close to her patients?”

The question said something about how an outsider looking in sometimes doesn’t understand what good cancer doctors are really all about. They are not simply mechanics who provide necessary medicines then collect a fee. Oncologists also are cheerleaders, pathfinders, advocates, healers, handholders, psychologists and parents all rolled into one. Many is the time I’ve told Kathy, “I have no idea how you do what you do.” Good oncologists are a special breed. They can do their job perfectly – prescribe the right medicine, follow every step, make every diagnosis – and they can still “fail.” How many professions are there like that?

The answer I gave to my colleague’s question – “How does she stop from getting close to her patients?” – cut to the heart of who Kathy is as a person, and it was a simple answer: “She doesn’t,” I said. “She does get close to them. She shares their fears, their hopes, their sorrows, their joys. She has to. They have to know that she’s in the fight to stay.”

That’s why I fell in love with Kathy in the spring of 1998. Her heart radiates faith, love and hope. Her first instinct – to trust and empathize – is a remarkably refreshing approach, be it with family, friends, patients or strangers.

Kathy has asked me before how she has made a difference in my life. I’ve not been able to answer that because the question is so big. But I’d have to say that her faith in God has opened my eyes wider to all the wonders around us; her belief in the goodness of people has opened my heart; and her trust has allowed me to love as fully as I ever have.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Kathy

Happy Valentine's Day, Kathy, Part 1

We’ve started a new tradition in our house, and it was the brainchild of my wife. The three of us – myself, my wife, Kathy, and our son, Robby – hold hands and say a prayer at the beginning of each workday/school day. We ask God to bless us in our many tasks, asking that we keep in mind His word and His example to us through His son, Jesus.

Now, many Christians talk a good game when it comes to prayer, but in practice, well … let’s just say some are left wanting. I try to pray each night, but admittedly, I sometimes sign in but forget to sign out. We’ve been praying together each morning for a couple of months now and not only is it helpful, it really speaks to who my wife is as a Christian, a person and a woman.

If one’s approach to life is measured either with an arrow pointed up or an arrow pointed down, my wife’s arrow is most assuredly pointed up. Kathy always tries to find the positive in just about any situation, and more importantly, in just about any person. She constantly encourages our son to share his smile with others and find the right way to solve problems. I do not hear her speak ill of anyone; if someone has not treated her well, Kathy will say, “Well, maybe they were having a bad day.” She is quick to forgive.

Sometimes she takes the bright outlook to an interesting level: anytime we’re watching a football game and some pushing or shoving breaks out, Kathy says, “Guys, guys. Be nice to each other.”

Kathy loves to laugh. Many a time we’ve been in a movie theater, and she bursts out laughing at a particularly funny scene. She surprises herself when she does this, because she’ll cover her mouth thinking it’s too loud. I just smile when she does that.

Kathy also is moved easily to tears. A dear friend of mine once said of herself, “Oh, I cry at supermarket openings.” That’s Kathy, too. If something moves her, she’ll tear up, be it a passage from a book, some personal encounter or a movie. It’s one of her most endearing qualities. “Don’t ever change,” I say to her.

It’s her zest for life that makes her so special and what drew me to her 12 years ago. I was introduced to Kathy as I was rebuilding my life after my first wife passed away. It was a very rough year, trying to balance the needs of – first – my grade-school daughter, then a house, my career and working through the process of mourning and grief. By the time I met Kathy, I had steadied the ship, but its heading was uncertain. Enter a 36-year-old whose energetic way, tender heart and devotion to God got me back on course.

After being introduced, Kathy and I had our first date in February 1998. It was a remarkable evening. Neither of us was nervous because we talked for two hours BEFORE we went to dinner. She made me feel so at ease, so comfortable. It was her giving nature that first drew me to her, that and her dynamite smile, an amazing combination of warmth and enamel!

After dinner, she invited me in for coffee. I immediately accepted, even though I was not a coffee drinker. A chance to spend a few more minutes with her was perfect. We said our good-byes a short time later, and as I walked down the steps, I felt something I hadn’t in such a long time. I looked back at her, went back up the steps and kissed her good night again. I then realized that my heart, closed off for months, was actually beating again.

Up next: Part 2