Mom's (and Dad's) Story, Part 3

I had a pretty incredible childhood. Norman Rockwell-esque, actually. Maybe I've idealized it in my mind now that my parents are gone, but I don't think so. It really was picture perfect.

Dad never wanted to have a second job, because he felt called to ministry and wanted to make sure he was fully committed to his flock. He was more than a pastor; he was a shepherd. We were Mom's priority, and she didn't work outside the home until I was in high school. We didn't have a lot of money, but it didn't matter to us. If anything, we knew what was important in life and we had more fun together as a family, because we couldn't afford all the distracting, time-consuming "stuff." And I wouldn't have traded it for all the money in the world.

Our house was the one in the neighborhood where all the kids gathered in the evenings, on weekends, and just about every day in the summer. We had NERF and squirt gun wars, football games, and a wiffle ball World Series every year (boys vs. girls, and we girls usually won). Dad was always home for dinner, and we ate together as a family every evening. I thought that was the norm until I was in fifth grade and my friend Jenny came over. She was surprised when my dad came home in time to eat with us; she was completely shocked when I told her that was our routine.

Aside from one amazing road trip to Oregon to visit my dad's aunt and uncle, our vacations were usually camping trips Up North. It almost always rained, and I have plenty of memories of coloring or playing board games in the tent... even waking up one morning with our air mattresses floating in a couple inches of water. But I have plenty of fond memories, too. Sometimes, my grandma, grandpa, and Aunt Denise would join us, and those were my favorite vacations. Dad loved to laugh, and the best times were spent sitting around the campfire. Supper would be cooked over the fire or on the Coleman stove, and we would eat together, just like at home. Our state has so much beauty to offer, and I fell in love with places like Hartwick Pines,  Tahquamenon Falls and the Mackinac Bridge. Dad would start planning the next year's vacation the day after we got home.

On rare occasions, we were able to travel outside our beautiful state. When my sister graduated from high school, my aunt took us all to Hawaii to visit my other aunt, whose husband served in the Army and was stationed on Oahu. That was the trip of a lifetime, and I will always be grateful to my aunt that I was was able to see my mom and dad experience it. And the summer after my sophomore year in high school, my dad could finally afford to take us all to Rocky Mountain National Park. I've always felt like he belonged in the mountains, but God called him to minister here. I'm pretty sure his mansion in heaven is a log cabin nestled at the foot of a mountain range like nothing we've ever seen here on earth.

I don't remember exactly when, but at some point during my childhood, my dad was diagnosed with diabetes. It's a manageable condition, but not curable, and it can do terrible things to a person's body. It would eventually be the reason my dad was forced to retire from shepherding his flock. His kidneys had failed, and he was on dialysis three times a week. He felt he was short-changing his congregation because of his poor health, so he made the difficult decision to retire. And Mom, who had been working part-time in a daycare center, became their sole source of income and my dad's caregiver.

I am incredibly grateful that Mom was able to come and serve full-time at Youth Haven, and we were able to help provide for them. Shortly after Dad retired, he had to undergo a leg amputation, just below the knee. Mom was working full-time, taking him to dialysis three times a week, and also taking him to physical therapy so he could learn to walk with a prosthesis.

She never complained. Her motto was, "You do what you have to do." But, somehow, she always managed to do it cheerfully.

As my dad's health continued to worsen, I watched my mom lovingly care for him with grace and compassion that was Jesus in the flesh. Through a stroke, a heart attack scare, and several hospital visits, never once did she think about herself first. She poured herself out willingly for my dad.

Mom had always been the strong one - the reasonable, level-headed balance to Dad's emotional, fun-loving personality. So I will never forget taking her call on my cell that November day right before Thanksgiving. There was no pulse in my dad's remaining foot. They would let him be with the family for Thanksgiving, but the very next day he was to be admitted to the hospital. A second amputation seemed likely. I could tell she was shaken and there was nothing I could do but pray. She would later tell me that, on the way home, the song "How Great is Our God" came on the radio. "And I knew everything would be okay," she said. No matter what happened, she had confidence in our God.

The surgery was a success, and Dad's recovery was going well. On December 9, 2012 - five years ago today - he was scheduled for a home visit to see how well he could navigate the house and what the physical therapists needed to work on with him. When our phone rang at 5:30 that morning and Lars answered, it never occurred to me that the call was about my dad. His heart had simply stopped beating. After 45 minutes of trying unsuccessfully to resuscitate him, they had called my mom, and she had given permission for them to stop. He was gone.

I didn't even take the time to shower. Mom came straight to our house, and I hugged her before we climbed into her car and headed to the hospital. A tearful nurse guided us to his room, and we sat together beside him for a while. There were details Mom had to take care of, and a chaplain came in to pray with us. But it was a teary-eyed blonde nurse that left the biggest impression on me. "He couldn't sleep, so I went in and gave him a back rub at about 2:30. He was cheerful and kept telling me how much he appreciated it. I'm so sorry."

We gathered his things and left the room. Mom went out ahead of me. I took one last look at him and then did one of the hardest things I've ever done in my life. I closed the door.

As Mom began to experience symptoms, my siblings and I often commented that God was good to take Dad first. When we had all gathered for Thanksgiving before he was admitted to the hospital, he had pulled us aside and told us to take care of our mother if anything happened to him. In fact, in his journal, he wrote, "You kids care for your mother, the love and delight of my life, since I no longer can." At that moment, we had no idea what caring for her would involve. But I think I can speak for all three of us and our spouses when I say it was an honor to do so.

Mom's Story, Part 2: Dad

If you grew up in Sunday school and church like I did, you more than likely heard the statement, “God works in mysterious ways” on more than one occasion. Mysterious to us, maybe, but only because our limited human minds are not capable of understanding His infinite one. I prefer to word it this way: “God works in wise ways we can’t always see.”

Mom’s life is evidence of that, from beginning to end. The way God brought my dad and her together is no exception.

They met at Grand Rapids School of the Bible and Music, but that wasn’t where my dad had planned on attending college. In fact, he didn’t want to be a pastor at all. His goal was to be a pilot in the Air Force, and he had hoped to enter the ROTC at Michigan State. But God had other plans, and when it was discovered that he was color blind, becoming a pilot was out of the question. He became a math major at Michigan State, but scholarship funds ran out and he couldn't afford his tuition. So God orchestrated a transfer to GRSBM, and Dad obeyed the call. Enter Norma Alberts, who would forever change his life.

Mom and Dad didn’t come from completely different worlds, but they were certainly completely different personalities. If Mom was the quiet bookworm, Dad was the mischievous prankster. I think it’s safe to say Mom would have been mortified if she had earned a demerit in Bible college. Dad was one demerit away from getting suspended. No, not for failing classes and certainly not for being disrespectful to his teachers. He simply loved to play jokes on people, and a demerit was a small price to pay for the laugh of fake dog poop being discovered on the neat freak’s bed during room inspection.

(After years of being used as sermon illustrations, I think I’ve earned the right to share a few stories about my dad. I’m positive he wouldn’t mind.)

My dad was born to George and Joyce Kirkland on October 26, 1946, the day after my grandma’s 19^th birthday. Dad was the third generation born in America, and the Kirklands were hardworking farmers by trade. But Grandpa’s allergies made farming difficult, and they moved their little family to Perry, Michigan, when Dad was about 5. That’s where most of the memories were made. Grandpa took a job at Michigan State University, and the Kirklands became Spartans. His handiwork can still be seen in the bowling alley at the MSU Union, where he installed the electric pinsetters. If you’ve ever wondered why I bleed green, there you have it. It’s a hereditary condition.

I have more stories about my dad’s childhood than I do about my mom’s. Mom kept a lot of things to herself; Dad loved to talk about the good old days. There was the time he accidentally locked his great-grandma in the chicken coop, and on several occasions he would trick his grandma into thinking it was time to get up from his nap by moving the hands on the clock forward after she had nodded off.

Dad loved cowboys and Indians, and his hero was Roy Rogers. When he was nine, they spent a year in California and had a chance to go to the Rose Parade. Guess who was proudly riding his horse in the parade? Roy Rogers! As Dad remembered it, Roy pulled his horse to a stop right in front of him, looked down, and said, "Hi, Don." Who were we to argue with the memory and imagination of a nine-year-old?

If the popular phrase "live, laugh, love" described anyone, it was my dad. He lived for Christ, his laugh was unforgettable, and he loved deeply. Dad was nine when his first little sister was born, and 21 when the second came along. When his first sister, Denise, was born, she was a preemie, tiny and precious. He was instantly the protective big brother. Her lungs weren’t fully developed, and she used to choke frequently, which terrified him. So whenever we would fight as kids, he would say, “I don’t understand it. When I was a kid, I was just so thankful my sister was alive, I never fought with her like that.” I believe he was telling the truth. When Mom started choking, I often remembered those words. Another one of God’s wise ways that we couldn’t see when He called my dad home. He spared my dad seeing his wife choke like his baby sister had. It would have been terrible for him.

But one of the stories that sticks with me the most was about him and his dad, before they had moved away from the farm. When it was supper time, Grandma would send him out to the barn to get Grandpa and bring him back to the house. It was often dark by then, and, of course, he was quite little. And he would be afraid. He would run to the barn as quickly as possible, and when he would get there, his dad would be there. Grandpa would take my dad’s tiny hand in his big one, and for the walk back to the house, Dad wasn’t afraid.

I know exactly how he felt. When I was a little girl, I was afraid of the dark. Our bedrooms were on the second floor of our house, and there was a light switch on one end of the hallway next to my room. Perfect, because I liked to leave the hallway light on when I went to bed. However, there was another light switch on the other end of the hallway, next to my sister’s room, and she liked it dark. We would have light switch wars where she would turn the light off, I would turn it on, and it would be never-ending if Mom didn’t intervene.

But Dad understood my fears. We had an old mattress that wasn’t being used on anyone’s bed, and he kept it stored underneath my bed. When I was afraid at night, he would pull that mattress out and lie on it on the floor in my room until I fell asleep.

As long as Dad was in the room, I knew I didn’t need to be afraid.  Sometimes, I would reach my hand out just to make sure he was still there. He always was. Dad never made me feel like my fears were silly or there was something wrong with me for being afraid. He was just there with me through them. And that has shaped my view of our Heavenly Father for my entire life.

My dad was amazing. My mom was amazing. I know I took them for granted when I still had them here.

Mom's Story, Part 1: The Beginning

“My mother is not her disease.”

To be honest, that’s one of the main reasons I have hesitated to share her story. I don’t want her to be remembered for the things her disease did to her. So it’s important for me to share the part of her story that took place before her diagnosis. The part of the story before ALS and dementia took so much away from her.

Mom was born on a chilly Friday in March, 1950. There were 48 states in the Union, the economy was rebounding after the war, and Senator Joseph McCarthy had just made the outrageous claim that he had a list of Communist spies in American government. Families were moving to the suburbs, the “baby boom” was, well, booming, and in most families, husbands were the sole breadwinners. 8 million homes in the United States now owned black and white televisions.

They named her Norma Kay. She was the third daughter born to Earl and Beth Alberts; a fourth daughter and a son would come along later to complete the family of seven. Grandpa had served stateside during World War II, boarding a bus headed for basic training and waving goodbye to his bride just seven months after their wedding. They knew what sacrifice was, and Grandpa worked hard to make sure his family’s needs were met.

“Wants” were a different story. My mom’s home was not among the 8 million in America to own a television set. In fact, Grandma and Grandpa didn’t purchase a TV until she was married and out of the house. But I don’t think it bothered her too much. She often spoke fondly of gathering around the television set at her Uncle Floyd’s house when something really important was on (mainly the Detroit Tigers). And Grandma and Grandpa were more focused on experiences than keeping up with the Joneses. The family album is filled with photos of trips to the zoo, playing together outside, family meals, Christmas mornings, and camping trips.

Mom was a shy kid who was always self-conscious about her freckles and bony knees. She hated potatoes and boiled bologna, and her siblings will tell you that on at least one occasion she attempted to get her way by holding her breath until she passed out. She was an avid reader and graduated as valedictorian from her high school. And she loved Jesus. Maybe more than anyone else I’ve ever known. 

Mom was a firm believer in God's goodness. I can still recall the first moment I knew that. I was in high school at Lansing Christian, and we were talking about predestination in Bible class. I knew what my dad believed, but I wanted to know what my mom believed. To answer my question, she told me this amazing story (in my own words, as close as I can remember it):

You can't see it as God choosing to save some and send others to Hell. The reality is, we are all bound for Hell. Since the moment sin entered the world, every single person has been born in a freefall toward Hell. Out of His incredible love, God reached down and rescued you. And He rescued that person, and that person, and that person. The sad thing is, so many people don't reach up and grab His hand when He reaches out to them.

My mom had this unbelievable understanding of God, His love, and His goodness that would carry her through some of the darkest times of her life. Oh, how I miss being able to look to her for wisdom!

Mom's Story: Preface

I didn’t realize how long it had been since I actually sat down and wrote something for my blog. And then I pulled it up on my computer screen, and there was this photo of my mom and me when I was a little girl. My last post, from Mother’s Day of this year. I suppose it’s fitting.

Fitting because what I’ve decided I need to do is tell my mom’s story.

I was sitting under the hair dryer at the salon, casually leafing through a magazine when I came across an article about Kimberly Williams-Paisley. You might remember her from a Steve Martin movie called Father of the Bride. That’s where I first became familiar with her. We had the orchestral version of "Canon in D" from that movie played at our wedding. Or you might know her as the wife of country star Brad Paisley.

She also happens to be the daughter of a woman who suffered from dementia. And she had just written what she described as the book she wished she could have read when her mom was diagnosed. It’s called Where the Light Gets In: Losing My Mother Only to Find Her Again, and I ordered a copy as soon as I got home. After reading it, I sort of feel like I know her. At any rate, I know what she’s been through.

Here’s a piece of Chapter 1:

“…she was diagnosed with primary progressive aphasia, a rare form of dementia, in 2005 at the age of sixty-two. She has since become someone I barely recognize. I miss her – the mom from long ago, before any of this started…

“One day in the future, when scientists study her donated brain, they’ll find signs of her disease. They might see plaque – waste material that looks like dust balls under the microscope. They may zoom inside the cells, searching for tangles resembling a jumble of spaghetti. Her brain overall will most certainly be smaller than normal, and some of the tissue might be slightly yellow or green instead of the usual gray.

“But they won’t be able to detect my mother’s courage. They won’t see her stubbornness, or humor, or infectious passion for life. They won’t be able to measure how much she loved her family or what kind of parent she was.

“My mother is not her disease.”

When I read these words, I knew we were kindred spirits. (Incidentally, I’ve always liked Brad Paisley’s music and humor, but after reading this book I love him. He has walked in my husband’s shoes and is a rare celebrity who understands the commitment of marriage and family.)

When I turned the last page of the book, I knew, at some point, I would have to tell my mom’s story. My family’s story. Her story can’t be told without including all of us. And I knew I had to tell it for two reasons. First, although I would not wish our heartache on anyone else, there is something strangely comforting in knowing someone else has experienced what you’re going through. Someone else “gets it.” But second, and probably more importantly, as helpful as Kimberly’s book was to me, it was missing one vital component: the hope of Christ. I don’t know how anyone gets through something like this without that. And so, if our story can give someone else hope, it’s time I share it.

My mom was diagnosed with primary progressive aphasia in 2014 at the age of sixty-four. I will never forget sitting next to her as her no-frills, redheaded neurologist delivered the diagnosis. Aphasia, she explained, is a general term used to describe an impairment of the function of language. Primary meant it was not a secondary condition caused by something like a stroke; it was a primary symptom of neurodegeneration. And progressive, as it sounds, meant it would get worse.

Stunned, I quietly posed the question: “If that’s what it is, can she get better?” My answer was a sad shake of her head, and the reality of it all began to sink in. Eventually, my mom would lose all ability to use words and understand anything spoken to her.

Little did we know that was only the tip of the iceberg.