Day Sixteen: Keeping Heart (My Story) Part
One - My Only Hope
I haven’t shared a TON about my personal
struggles, except to say that God has given me a lot of freedom. Much of that
freedom has come as I began to share about my own experience--and HOW to have
freedom. But it’s helpful to know someone’s “story”—to find the ways in which
you can relate to it, or even glean from it.
I grew up an only child, knowing that I was dearly loved by
my parents. But it was a rough upbringing in that my parents worried a lot over
money. Being kicked out of a residence (and more than once) is hard on a
parent’s spirit. They tried to shield me from as much of the financial concerns
as they could, but I was also pretty persistent and perceptive.
I learned so much from my mom and dad: diligence, music
appreciation, ingenuity, generosity…but I also learned how to worry. And be
fearful about many things.
The real struggle began OUTSIDE the home—when I went to
school. Preschool and kindergarten were both optional then, so my first school
experience was first grade. Nothing had prepared me for this major
adjustment—except that I knew how to be kind to others. Anxiety took hold every
morning for the longest time. Sometimes I would throw up at school from it.
Then came second grade. I had a teacher with pretty blonde
hair that ended in big, billowy curls. She had a soft, gentle voice and was
warmer somehow. She seemed to be someone who liked everyone. It was a pretty
peaceful year.
In third grade my teacher was kind and really tried to train
us in responsibility. My issue was wondering what other students thought of me.
I had wondered that since FIRST grade, but this year it seemed more pronounced.
I wanted to be liked by everyone—and certain kids were quite nice to me—but a
voice inside my head told me I didn’t fit in. I missed a lot of school that
year. Looking back now, I would say that I experienced social anxiety.
This was also the year I came to know Christ—and began going
to Sunday school fairly regularly with my Aunt Elsie. I was learning more about
God all the time, but I still didn’t like going to school.
Parents of only children must be careful that they don’t
take everything their child says at 100% face value. If I painted things as
unfair or unpleasant at school in any way, my mom was ready to storm the halls
of the school. Her response didn’t help me to face many of the fears and
insecurities I had in a healthy way. I realized years later that my parents
BOTH responded to my struggles out of fears and insecurities of their OWN.
There was a lot of undealt-with baggage they carried through life that
inadvertently modeled dysfunction for me, in spite of their unwavering love and
support.
In fourth grade, I developed a pretty pronounced habit of
overeating. My mom sent massive lunches, and I would eat every single bite—I
found a certain comfort in it. But I was always the last child to finish, so I
didn’t get to have much recess time—if at all. I think THAT was a comfort to me
as well. I could just stay inside with my ravioli and Hostess cupcakes and
forget about the possibility of people not wanting to play with me—or of them
looking at me in a disapproving way. But my large lunches concerned my teacher,
and she asked that my mom start sending me smaller ones. I’m not sure she
complied, but I know that year was sort of the beginning of my long-term weight
issue.
Fifth grade was a rough year for me. I had my first male
homeroom teacher, whom I liked very much—but sometimes I got the distinct
feeling that he was frustrated with me—particularly when it came to long
division. I’m sure he was ALSO frustrated because I missed so much school that
year. And I was terrible at making up assignments. I didn’t really have a
concept of “keeping up.” I just figured that when I showed up, I’d do what I
could. It didn’t help that I was sexually abused by a “friend of the family”
(not really my parents but the Miles family at large) that year. I was molested
through my clothing, so for many years after I mentally tried to make light of
what had happened in those few, short minutes—‘it wasn’t THAT bad.’ But it
affected me in more ways than I could possibly realize at the time.
By the end of the year, there were so many “holes” in my
learning, due to my chronic absences, that my teacher told my parents he really
SHOULD hold me back. But, he acknowledged to them, he felt that could
emotionally crush me. Perhaps he actually could see how vulnerable and lacking
in confidence I was. So I advanced to the sixth grade, my final elementary
year.
But because fifth grade was such a struggle, my parents felt
a change of atmosphere would be helpful. Somehow, they managed to enroll me in
the only Christian school in town, the Seventh Day Adventist School. We weren’t
Adventists, but they felt it was worth a try. There were about twelve of
us—grades one through eight in one room. A lot of what we did was independent
study—and we had some mixed-grade activities as well. I wanted to believe that
my teacher liked me and wasn’t just pretending, but I always had this nagging
feeling in the back of my mind, not only about her but about my classmates as
well—that maybe they were simply being nice to me but in truth felt SORRY for
me. Maybe they ACTUALLY thought I was pitiful and were just being my “friend”
because it was the Christian thing to do. Still, I enjoyed my relationships
there and had a good year in many ways. But…the “I-don’t-feel-well” bug reared
its ugly head on many a school morning, and I convinced my parents that I
couldn’t make it. Sometimes though, I know they weren’t actually “convinced;”
they just knew that fighting me would probably be more trouble than it was
worth. I was extremely headstrong and could be simply incorrigible, given the
proper motivation.
On the last day of sixth grade, I anxiously received my
report card and opened it. I don’t remember much about the grades, to be
honest—because what caught my eye was the strange phrase printed across the top:
‘Needs to repeat the sixth grade.’ I quickly sought out my teacher to beg an
explanation for these words. She said I’d need to talk to my parents and that
THEY could talk to her if they had any questions.
My world was shattered. I walked home from school that day
in disbelief and tears. The nervousness I had felt BEFORE going to the
Christian school returned. I remember talking to God on the way home and
saying, “God, I need your HELP!” I so wanted Him to rescue me from these
horrible circumstances. That little interval of time was so surreal—and my
anxiety level hit new heights. I didn’t understand how this had happened, and I
didn’t see how it could possibly be redeemed. I just knew I had to beg God for
His help. Star Wars was popular at the time, and I’m pretty sure I may have
even uttered the words, “God, you’re my only hope.”
Day Seventeen: Keeping Heart, Part 2 – Relocation,
Rebellion, and Romance
After my whole “failing sixth grade” experience—and my
previously less-than-stellar experience in public school, my parents decided I
may fare best in a country town. They still saw the value of the time I’d been
at the Christian school, though they couldn’t afford another year there
anyway—and I wasn’t ABOUT to go back as a sixth-grader again. The best solution
they could come up with was to talk to the administration at the school in the
next town upriver, Mapleton, Oregon. The school graciously agreed to test me to
determine if I might, in fact, be ready for the seventh grade.
As it turned out, I passed the standardized exams with
flying colors, scoring up to the tenth grade level. I was enrolled in the
seventh grade post haste. But there was an overlap in the time that I needed to
be in school (I was actually ALREADY late starting the year) and the time it
would take them to pack up, tie up loose ends, and get moved. It was arranged
that I would stay with a family friend who had been a bit like an older sister
to me. However, it wasn’t just her anymore—it was her and her HUSBAND, who I
wasn’t sure liked me. I BEGGED my parents not to leave me. I was thirteen years
old but a real BABY about staying away from home. I had only ever stayed
overnight with my Aunt Elsie. But they did what had to be done. I cried; I was
mad; I felt CLASSICALLY in the way and out of my element.
But I managed to survive the two weeks somehow—and fumbled
my way through locker combinations and awkward introductions. My second cousin,
Tricia, was the only person I knew—and then only sort of. Still, she did her
best to be kind. I don’t think she had the faintest clue how terrified I really
was.
Kids can be cruel, and the ones who found humor in those who
dress, act, or seem in some way DIFFERENT quickly found me. I did my best to
play along and be a good sport—even though the laughs were most often at my expense.
By eighth grade I had settled into my niche (at the lower
end of the social classes) and felt semi-comfortable. I liked my teachers and
classes. I had a few friends. And I liked the small-town feel of Mapleton.
However, I had already bought into the lie that I was “different;” I didn’t fit
in. In many ways I began to feel worthless. I knew I was smart. I knew my
parents loved me. I even knew, to some degree, that God loved me. I just wasn’t
convinced that anyone ELSE ever truly would. So I began, as the song goes,
“looking for love in all the wrong places.”
Through some of my parents’ friends, I met a guy who I
wouldn’t have given consideration to as a potential boyfriend except for the
facts that: a) I’d never HAD a boyfriend; b) I was hungry for male attention;
and c) he paid attention to me. Here was someone who found me pretty. No matter
that he was in his twenties (and I was fourteen and a half) or that he didn’t
possess very good hygiene—and ignore the fact that I was clearly dozens of IQ
points ahead of him. He found me ATTRACTIVE. And that’s pretty much all it
took. My worth-o-meter could now be fed.
The thing was, though—in my heart of hearts, I never DID
feel any better about me—but I worked hard at CONVINCING myself that this was
“the life for me.” His mother was planning our whole wedding, and I barely had
any say in it at all. His dream was to live in Idaho and own a wrecking yard.
And that was to be my dream as well—a future of family dysfunction and trying
to “raise” this guy into some sort of productive member of society. And I
honestly THOUGHT this was what I was destined to do.
At this point, my parents had very little control over me. I
did what I pleased and basically rebelled against ANY and ALL limits they tried
to place on me. I was a derailed train barreling toward a brick wall, and I was
throwing myself at it with all the velocity I could muster.
We were together for just over two years, and all the while
a still, small voice kept trying to get my attention. I kept reasoning that this
path was “good enough.” After all, I was happy…WASN’T I? Well, when it came
right down to it—no. I wasn’t happy. I knew this relationship was wrong. I
WANTED to be close to God, and this MESS had pulled me far from Him.
Somehow my cousin convinced me one night to attend a youth
group meeting. The older brother of one of our friends had returned to his
hometown and wanted to revitalize the youth group in my local church. He’d be
having his first meeting there—and she wanted me to come. Miraculously, I did.
My spirit was searching for something MORE—for answers as to what the future
really DID hold for me.
I don’t recall what was spoken, but when there was time for
responses I recall feeling like I needed to let things out in the open. There
were some shocked expressions, but I didn’t really care. I felt so much freer.
I felt like God was giving me a second chance—He changed my heart in virtually
an instant.
I began reading my Bible faithfully—and I talked about God
all the time. The problem was—I really didn’t know HOW to have a relationship
with God. I mean, I grew up praying—but somewhere along the way I had gotten
the idea that I needed to DO a bunch of stuff to be accepted by Him. If I
didn’t read my Bible or go to Sunday School, I’d feel guilty. And that’s when
the enemy would hit me with a lot of depression. I didn’t realize then that
what God wanted most was for me to spend TIME with Him, to talk to Him.
But I was grateful—the Lord had shown me the way out of a
bad situation, and I was learning to take care of myself. Summer came, and I
spent a lot of my time exercising and going places with friends. I felt like I
could be myself again.
I wasn’t particularly LOOKING for romance, but after
attending a youth group Hawaiian party the end of June, 1986, it found me.
There had been a cute and funny guy at the party, a co-worker of our new youth
leader, and I’d had some interaction with him.
Once I got home that night, I couldn’t stop thinking about
him. A few days later, I ran into him at the movie theater and ended up sitting
next to him. Over the next few days, he called and left a message at my
cousin’s, since my parents didn’t have a phone at the time. That did it for me.
I had to go and FIND this “Byron” guy and talk to him in person. For some
reason, I was strongly compelled—and my seventeen-year-old brain was working
overtime. Prince Charming had expressed an interest in me, and I was determined
to track him down.
Day 18: Keeping Heart, Part Three – Ceremonies, Students,
and Surprises
I convinced my dad to drive me to the nearest pay phone so I
could call Byron. He still lived with his parents. Unfortunately, he wasn’t
home. I only had my driver’s permit at the time, so I virtually BEGGED my
parents to drive to Florence so I could go to his workplace, Safeway. SURELY I
could find him. I was a very persuasive daddy’s girl, so a short time later we
were in the trusty Chevy pick-up, headed for Florence, about a 20-mile drive.
I marched into Safeway and recognized one of Byron’s
friends, Mike, who also worked there. I proceeded to ask him if Byron was at
work. He wasn’t, so I asked if Mike knew where I could find him—or where I
could find Jeff, the friend who had come with him to the Hawaiian party. Jeff
was supposedly house-sitting for a guy. I got that guy’s name and proceeded
with determination to the outside pay phone. I didn’t get an answer, but I
wasn’t giving up.
My parents wanted to stop by, for some reason, and visit my
ex-boyfriend’s folks. That was awkward—especially seeing HIM. My whole goal at
this point was to get out of there and find Byron! So I convinced my ex to
drive me to “a friend’s place.” Jeff was surprised to see me on the
doorstep—and even MORE surprised when I asked if he knew where Byron was. He
didn’t, but I invited myself in and proceeded to ask him questions about Byron.
Yes, all the while, my ex was waiting in the car.
Jeff decided to try and call Byron’s house—perhaps he was
home by now. As it turned out, he was. Arrangements were made for him to meet
me at my current location. So I went out and told my “driver.” At this point I
felt I needed to be honest, and he sped away quite angrily.
This “date” was just the beginning. A year later, Byron
attended my high school graduation, and two months after that we were married.
We moved to Corvallis, where I was planning to attend Oregon State while Byron
attended Linn-Benton Community College.
We had our work cut out for us, being—let’s face it—not
REALLY adults yet, at eighteen and nineteen years old. We were still growing
up, but now we had to do so in a MARRIAGE. It was harder than I had imagined.
One fight I recall left me shaking with anger and Byron’s eyes wide with shock
at the display of intense emotion he’d just witnessed.
But we made it, and we found a church to call home. Coming
from Presbyterian and Evangelical roots, respectively, it was our first
Charismatic church. But we LOVED seeing God move in new ways—and we loved the
people. We were happy to serve—and SERVE we did, in just about any area we
could. It was actually a “requirement” that all women, mothers or not, serve in
the nursery. So I did. And anytime there was any kind of work party, we were
both there.
I finished my first year at OSU with a couple D’s under my
belt. Having graduated third in my class in high school, I was devastated. I
remembered my friend Tom telling me that the university was more like a “meat
grinder” and community college would “spoon feed” students—it was easier, more
personal—you weren’t just a number. I decided to give it a try. I spent the
next five terms at LBCC, then transferred back to Oregon State. It took a lot
of the pressure off and was one of the best decisions I ever made.
It was hard to be a young married woman, be in school
full-time, work part-time, AND keep up with the demands of church life. There
was a lot of good teaching in our church, and great fellowship gatherings—but
we were the youngest married couple in the church, and we always felt that we
didn’t quite “measure up” to expectations. I, for one, put a lot of pressure on
myself and felt guilted and shamed by people if I ever missed a service to do
homework. After a while, I just stopped having the desire to go. I still loved
the Lord, but I wanted to be more of a pew-warmer for a while. I needed a
break.
Eventually my frustration—which my husband shared to a large
degree—came to a head. We’d been in the church going on five years and made
some lifelong friendships—but we no longer wanted to “perform.” We felt God had
more for us. Leaving was painful and felt incredibly risky. I had graduated
with my Bachelor’s and was just beginning my Master of Arts in Teaching
studies, being one of the fifty applicants who’d been accepted for the pilot
teacher ed program.
It was shortly after that that we found a new church—and
though it was different, it was different in a lot of GOOD ways and became home
to us. We jumped into serving, of course, because that’s what we knew. But
there was a different atmosphere in regard to our labors. It wasn’t “expected.”
And that was refreshing.
In September, just barely into my MAT program, I began
feeling sick to my stomach a lot. I talked to my best friend, Debbie, who’d
been a birth instructor for many years and was like an older sister to me. She
also volunteered at the local crisis pregnancy center. She took me there and
had me do a pregnancy test. The results were inconclusive. But my symptoms
persisted. We went back a week later. Clearly positive.
And now I had to tell Byron…
When he got home that day, I wasted no time in saying that I
had something to tell him. I asked him to sit down while I explained that I’d
been feeling nauseous for a while and that Debbie had taken me to be tested. I
ended with, “We’re going to have a baby.”
Initially, Byron thought of our “plans”—our proposed timeline
for me going into the teaching field, paying off loans, etc.—THEN having a
baby, several years down the road. But he quickly embraced the new reality and
was excited at the prospect of being a dad.
I told my major professor, who was very encouraging and
assured me that they would make things work with my internship if I came up
short on classroom time. I was student-teaching in a second grade class…and I
was going to be VERY pregnant by the time the year ended.
I had very little nausea with my pregnancy, thankfully, and worked
hard on my lessons and classroom management. The latter did not come easily to
me, and this was a difficult class behaviorally. Looking back now, I realize
there were about six kids with ADHD, one of whom could have probably been diagnosed
with ODD (oppositional defiant disorder) as well.
As if being pregnant and dealing with unruly
second-graders—and the feelings of inadequacy and questions of ‘did I choose
the right profession?’— weren’t enough, I was about to be hit hard on a personal
level, blindsided really—and there was NOTHING to prepare me for what was
coming.
Day Nineteen, Keeping Heart, Part 4 – The Unexpected
It was close to 1:00 in the morning when the phone rang.
Immediately I knew something was wrong. Byron answered the phone and after
exchanging a few words with the caller whispered to me, “Something’s wrong with
your mom.” I hesitantly took the phone. My dad, though trying to be
level-headed, was a nervous wreck. In the background I could hear what sounded
like the rantings of a lunatic. I realized, with a surge of horror, that this
was my mom.
I asked my dad a few questions—to clarify what my mom was
saying and how long she had been like this. I learned that it had been going on
for days. In a virtual zombie-fied state, she’d been pacing and ranting—for
DAYS. For the past several years, my parents had lived in their single-wide
1959 one-bedroom trailer on my cousin Ellis’s (Tricia’s dad) property. Now, my
mom was saying that she and my father had to leave and that all the animals
(their family had some cats, dogs, ducks, and cows), which my parents helped
care for when Ellis and his family were away, were going to die. It became
quickly clear to me that my mom’s reality at the moment was made up of nothing
but the worst possible scenarios. She and my dad were, supposedly, in some kind
of grave danger as well—SOMEONE was after them. None of it made any sense—but
she believed it with an unshakeable vengeance. I had Dad put her on the phone
and tried, fruitlessly, to reason with her.
The next call I received was from my Aunt Wenda, my mom’s
youngest sister. She wanted me to know that she wasn’t wasting any time—she was
taking a friend and heading to get my mom. She would take her to OHSU (Oregon
Health Sciences University), where they had some of the best doctors in the
country. She needed help; she needed it now; and Aunt Wenda wasn’t going to
mess around with any Podunk doctors. I heard myself articulating agreement—it
still all seemed surreal.
In moments like these, one REALLY wishes NOT to have been an
only child. But I was. And I was a full-time student teacher, and seven months
pregnant. Stress and hormone levels were already at a maximum—but in the last
fifteen minutes they’d just gone through the ROOF.
I was in tears—and shock. Byron tried to console me, but he
too was gravely concerned. What could’ve caused this? What could we do? What
was going to happen? All sorts of unanswered questions raced through our minds
as we prepared to head to Portland that morning to do whatever needed to be
done—it was unclear at the moment just what that would be.
I think I called my mentor teacher, Jan, right then to tell
her that my mom had “lost it” and that I wouldn’t be in that day. She was very
understanding and encouraged me to take care of myself. But at the moment, all
I could think of was my poor mom who’d lost all touch with reality.
When we arrived at the hospital, we were met by Wenda and
some medical personnel, who immediately asked me questions about history of
trauma, health, medical treatment, etc. I answered as best I could. Inside I
was a basket of nerves. I wanted to see my mom, of course—but inside I was so
afraid. Aunt Wenda warned me that what I was about to see would be unnerving
because Mom was clearly “not herself.” I nodded that I understood. But I really
didn’t, because when I walked into the ER and saw the wide-eyed, panic-stricken
ghost of a woman, it was all I could do not to run the other way.
But I didn’t. She seemed to know me, but the normal familial
acknowledgements were absent—in their place was a shaky voice begging “Help
me.” She said they had strapped her down and locked her in a room and not let
her go to the bathroom. I didn’t know how much to believe, but my heart went
out to her. She was scared—out-of-her-mind, fearing-for-her-life SCARED. I held
her hand and tried to assure her that the doctors were going to help her. But
of course, she felt they were trying to kill her. Really, there was nothing I
could do for her. Soon, Byron gave me a gentle signal that we’d been there long
enough—aside from not being able to help my mom, he could see that all this was
having a negative effect on me emotionally.
As I recall, we stayed in town that day and came back later
in the evening. But what we did in the interim is a blur to this day. What I DO
know we did was pray—it was the only thing that provided some semblance of
order and calm to an otherwise chaotic situation.
Around dinnertime, we arrived to see my mom, who was now in
a regular hospital room. She told us, of course, how badly the staff was
treating her and said something about them doing “tests” on her—the government
was involved somehow. I knew this was all fiction, but my mom’s feelings of
desperation hit me full-force. I asked to see the doctor but was informed by
the nurse that he was “unavailable” now—he was upstairs somewhere doing
something else. What on earth could be more important than my mom?! I was
offended that he was not tending to her, and I wanted to talk to him
immediately. I told the nurse in no uncertain terms that Dr. So-and-so had
better “get his ass down here” and actually HELP my mother.
About ten minutes later, the doctor showed up. He was
patient and spoke softly. That, combined with my husband’s light touches and even-keeled
interjections, redirected me to a large degree. The doctor explained that my
mother was experiencing a psychotic episode, brought on by a thyroid storm.
Basically, my mom’s heart rate, blood pressure, and body temperature had gone
to dangerously high levels. Thyroid storms are often fatal. I was grateful that
my mom was alive—but I wanted my REAL mom back. In time, she should return to
clear thinking, but there was no telling exactly how long that would take.
My mom did recover and receive new thyroid medicine. It
turned out that her M.D. had been mis-prescribing for her condition, which had
made things worse. This whole ordeal could probably have been avoided. About
two years later, she returned to OHSU for surgery. It was fairly involved—eight
hours long. They removed almost all of her thyroid gland, along with a tumor
the size of a grapefruit in her chest (it was benign, but it explained why
she’d been having shortness of breath for a very long time), a goiter (an
abnormal swelling of the neck due to an enlarged thyroid gland—basically a
“mass”), and a large cyst (from the side of her neck/facial area—also benign).
Because the tumor in her chest was so large, surgeons had to cut through her
breastbone in order to remove it, which of course lengthened the duration of
the surgery.
Two months after the “episode,” it was almost time for our
baby to be born. We didn’t know what gender—we wanted to be surprised. My last
ultrasound, though, revealed that something was amiss—the baby was still
breach. We went in two weeks before my due date to have a “turning” procedure
done—using ultrasound, technicians could manually maneuver the baby into the
right position. But this wasn’t going to work in our case. Our baby had
hyper-extended one leg and was pretty well “stuck.” Aside from that, the cord
was wrapped twice around his/her head. If it dropped in the process of turning,
it could tighten and be life-threatening; an emergency C-section would be
required. We decided to wait it out—and pray for the baby’s safe arrival.
On June 15, 1992, I received my Master of Arts in Teaching
Degree in Elementary Education. I had learned from my experience the previous
year that one does not wear a long dress under the grad gown. I wore a
light-weight shorts jumper instead. After all, I was carrying an extra PERSON—I
was hot enough already! Fellow education graduates were concerned about me, as
they knew I was due soon; they were afraid I’d pass out during the ceremony or
something. Temperatures were a record high for June that year. But I made it.
I had chosen, wisely, NOT to go on the end-of-year zoo trip
I had organized for my class. They had thrown me a surprise baby shower at the
end of the year. I was relieved to have completed all my requirements, but I
was going to miss those little varmints. They were sweet—and even the ones I’d
had troubles with had come around.
What a year it had been! I thanked the Lord for seeing me
through, as I knew I couldn’t have made it without Him. He’d given me strength
in the toughest of times and had sustained me throughout my pregnancy.
Precisely one week after graduation, our firstborn decided
to make a grand appearance. My water broke at 1:30 a.m. When we arrived at the
hospital, my contractions were steady and strong. The baby still hadn’t turned,
so we knew I’d be having a c-section. An epidural was attempted. It didn’t
work—I could still feel everything. After a second attempt, Dr. Jodell Boyle
informed me that I would have to go under general anesthesia. I didn’t have
time to think it through. Yes, I was nervous, but most of all I wanted a
healthy baby. I looked at my husband as they put the mask on me and uttered one
word, “Pray.”
That was the last thing I remember—until I heard these words
through my medicine-induced fog: “You have a beautiful baby girl.” I couldn’t
open my eyes yet, but I heard those words as plain as day. About forty-five
minutes later, I was holding Kristiana Lorraine Kephart for the first time. She
was so perfect—and tiny! At least to me—a mere six pounds, nine and one-half
ounces, with tons of dark hair. Who cares that I had two university degrees?
THIS, by far, was my greatest achievement yet. She was so beautiful! I had no
idea how to be a PARENT yet, but I was reveling in the realization that I was a
mommy.
Byron had quit school to work and support the family, which
he continued to do, while I changed diapers, nursed, and read to our attentive
newborn. By the time she was ten months old, we felt it was high time I get
some work—bills were coming, and we needed the income. I’d been offered a
position in Lakeview, Oregon, which I’d turned down because it was so far away
from everyone we knew—and CIVILIZATION! The job I WAS able to get in town was
teaching preschool which I’d never envisioned doing. Of course, I’d never
envisioned being part of the first group to go through the MAT program in
Oregon; I’d never envisioned being PREGNANT during that same program; I’d never
envisioned my mom going off the deep end; I’d never envisioned having to be
unconscious for the birth of my first child—I was learning to expect the
unexpected. After all, these were just LITTLE kids—how hard could that be? I
was about to get a REAL education.
Day 20, Keeping Heart – Part Five: Failure, Blessing, and
the New Tenants
It started out great. I was enjoying my “little people.” But
in some areas I was expecting too much—I didn’t yet adequately understand
“developmentally appropriate.” Still, I was balancing “fun” with educational
activities to the best of my ability. We made a brownie train one day—the cars
were connected with thin pieces of red licorice, and we used Lifesavers for the
wheels. And we made robots using boxes, foil, and other junk. It was in the
areas of behavioral management that I seemed to struggle.
My most difficult student—and probably the one I had the
softest spot for (as I still remember his name) was a little guy named Thomas
Fotopolus. He gave me a run for my money. Pretty soon, I had been called into
the office for some “advice” regarding how to deal with this little angel.
Apparently, I wasn’t doing a good enough job. I was very sensitive—and
especially to what came across as criticism. Looking back now, I believe my
supervisor was trying to help me. But I feared failure—probably for lots of
reasons—my parents’ fears, my sixth grade experience…I mean, it seemed I’d
failed at everything important—school attendance; being at least marginally
popular; keeping myself pure until marriage; keeping my cool when my mom fell
apart. Shoot—I couldn’t even have a BABY correctly (of course, that one wasn’t
my fault).
And now…I was failing at—PRESCHOOL? I mean, if I couldn’t
teach preschool, maybe I’d completely botched my choice of profession. I didn’t
know how to be “shrewd as a snake but as innocent as a dove” in terms of
student behavior interactions. I didn’t realize that preschoolers could be
so…MANIPULATIVE. Looking back now, I can see that THEY were really controlling
ME to a large degree. And I simply didn’t know how to turn the tables. And
since I COULDN’T figure it out, I decided to quit after two months of this
teaching “experiment.”
I left feeling like an utter loser. I was afraid to move
forward—afraid to apply for elementary teaching jobs (though I did, for a few).
What if I just didn’t have what it TOOK?
My next teaching gig was subbing, which I did somewhat
regularly for a few months until we moved to Aloha, Oregon, just outside of
Beaverton.
After a while, I felt it might be best if I KNEW where I was
going each day and had a predictable amount of money to depend on. It might be
best for little Kristiana too, who was now about a year and a half. I took a
job at a nearby daycare center which ran a structured program. This felt like
an all-time low to me, but at the time I wasn’t sure I could succeed at
anything else. I complained about my job daily and felt that now, these
PRE-preschoolers were running over the top of me. Just what did MOST teachers
have that I seemed to lack? Soon, after about three months, some of my actions
had been questioned, I wasn’t truly enjoying my job, and I was missing my
little girl. I mean, how much sense did it make to be taking care of other
people’s kids and not being with my own?
After taking some time to regroup, I started subbing again.
My credentials allowed me to cover high school, which I found even SCARIER than
dealing with preschoolers—or two-year-olds. Sometimes students would sort of
mock me from the sidelines—I’d BEEN a high-schooler; I knew the looks, the
laughs, the sarcasm. But I had been one of the “good kids,” who felt sorry for
subs when some of my classmates were jerks.
Maybe I was simply “not worth it” in terms of teaching? I
didn’t have what it took. Even after all the souring experiences, a college
friend somehow convinced me to consider looking for work in Hermiston—Eastern
Oregon. She was a teacher there—and the demand for subs was high. Byron was in
a dead-end job at the time—and we’d just gotten out of a couple difficult
roommate situations. Perhaps moving to Hermiston would be a fresh start for our
family. I could be better—I just KNEW I could. I HAD to. I couldn’t bear to
fail at the only thing I’d ever felt I was supposed to do—aside from writing.
Teaching in Hermiston proved to be quite regular—and with
the exception of a couple sub gigs—it seemed to agree with me. Byron finally
got a job managing apartments. Kristiana had a great daycare person. Life was
good. Until missing our family and friends in the Willamette Valley combined
with some ethical concerns my husband had regarding his supervisor forced us to
re-evaluate our “life plan” after six months in this dry little farm town.
I’d had a taste of success in my profession, but I just
wasn’t cut out for this part of Oregon. And the truth was, I STILL felt the
pangs of failure after having interviewed for two positions in the district and
not getting either one.
But were we STUCK here, or did God have another plan for us
closer to the place we’d called “home” the longest? If we were to move back, He
was going to have to make a way.
We happened upon a job for a new complex in Albany, Oregon.
My husband didn’t possess the degree the job listed as a qualification, but
suddenly faith rose in me like never before. I KNEW he had to apply for it
anyway. And I felt that if he got an interview, he would get that job.
And that’s exactly what happened. This was certainly a token
for good. We settled into a pattern and resumed regular visits to our folks.
About a year and a half later, my mom was going through a rough patch with
depression. We had an open unit—these were small two-bedroom manufactured
homes—not your typical “apartment.” After living in a run-down trailer for so
long, I had a feeling my parents would like it. But would they MOVE? They’d
been, for all practical purposes, living out in the woods for so long with no
one to “look over their shoulder,” it would literally take an act of God to get
them to consider any kind of change. It seemed like a sheer impossibility. But
I felt I had to try.
It was the summer of 1986 when my parents, who never did
ANYTHING “new,” left their long-time home to be tenants of their son-in-law, in
a town literally over fifty times bigger than the one they were leaving behind.
My mom wasn’t actually THRILLED with the idea—she was having serious anxiety
over it. But that, to me, was all the more reason they SHOULD move. I felt a
change of venue—something newer, brighter, cleaner—would help her mood and
quality of life greatly. My dad, remarkably, agreed. So the move proceeded, in
spite of my mom’s irrational reservations.
Shortly after my parents became my close neighbors, I began
to wonder if it HAD been such a good idea. I’d felt God’s hand in it, but my
mom was so anxious. She was having a hard time adjusting. And then, it
happened. The event that caused me to quit nursing my then three-month-old
baby, Kalina, and pretty much just do my best to keep it together. But COULD I?
