A BAD WORD

Cancer. Bad word. Hard word. Hard to live with, harder to die with. Most families experience it. Ours is no exception.

My Grandmother Strickland died of cancer. I was a little girl.

Daddy’s prostate cancer was discovered when he retired from the Navy. I was 16. They got it in time. He lived another 40 plus years and was buried in the same uniform. I can’t even fit in a 10 year old dress!

Recently I knocked on neighbors’ doors collecting for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society. A few years ago I couldn’t even spell it. Then my nephew, Brian Tippett, a young father of 3, sat in his doctor’s office.

When the doctor said it was lymphoma, he turned to his wife, Kimberly, “I have cancer. Say it, Kimberly.” She couldn’t. Not yet. He met it head on, like he does everything, and beat it. Twice.

Last year our family was plowed over by the C Train again. Both my brothers were diagnosed with prostate cancer, just months apart. Brian's dad, Bert, seven years older than I, is facing terminal cancer. My younger brother, Ricky, was diagnosed in time to remove it, before it spread. Bert saved Ricky’s life.

I began this blog to tell stories. But some stories can best be told by the ones who live them. So in my next blogs Bert and Ricky will tell you theirs.

Why do bad things happen to good people? God only knows. Why do good things happen to bad people? God’s grace. But we seldom question that flip side of life.

Job suffered and summarized it, “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.”

Paul suffered something like a spike driven through his body. He asked for relief three times but was not cured. He was told, “My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness.”

Grace can be hard too. When Paul accepted the big picture, he said, "I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ's sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties." [Whew!] " For when I am weak, then I am strong." (2 Cor. 12:9-10)

Now that's hard...hard grace to understand, harder to live! Yet real.

'Twas grace that taught my heart to fear

And grace my fears relieved."

Bert and Ricky use what God has allowed (I didn't say caused) as a platform of suffering from which to witness about His power and grace. Power to heal. Or grace not to be healed. Both are writers. Kat's Pause will be their platform the next three Fridays.

Listen well. You never know when your family may hear that long, mournful blast from the C Train heading your way. Christ transforms it into a G Train, as the old spiritual song says:

"Get your ticket for that Glory Train.

It will take you up to heaven's domain.

You'll arrive and get your great reward

And you'll say, 'Hallelujah!

I'm gonna see my Lord!

...Gonna ride that Glory Train!”

Whether by death or Christ's return, believers know that heaven is their final destination. It's a win-win ticket!

That famous theologian, Erma Bombeck, said before her death, "When I stand before God at the end of my life, I would hope that I would not have a single bit of talent left, and could say, 'I used everything You gave me.'"

Recently we sang another old spiritual (video below) that uses a chariot analogy to remind us heaven.

Ride That Chariot (Doug, Kathy, Vickie Morrison & Tommy Graham):

My prayer is that their real life stories will prove to be

Blessings!

Kathy

BIG BROTHER BERT

Let me introduce you to my BB, as I affectionately call him sometimes. I don’t know if he likes the nickname or not. I never asked him. This is his lovely, devoted wife, Dianne. You’ll hear his story soon because he’ll be my guest writer on Kat’s Pause. That’s what he does for a living—writes, edits, publishes. Did. Until he retired a few weeks ago.

Bert is seven years older than I. When we were kids, that was a big difference and I maximized it.

“Well, you should see MY big brother. He’s bigger than yours and can beat yours up!”

It was half true. But Bert was gentle, smart, nurturing.

It wasn’t in his nature to fight. However, one time the neighborhood bully hurt me. The gentle giant woke up! Bully never bothered me again.

Ricky was three years younger than I. He and Bert were 10 years apart. (I’ll do the math for you.) Bert was often our care-giver. We both looked up to him…literally but also in every other way. He set a better example than either of us could follow.

Bert always made the honor roll. Ricky and I had good attendance records, thanks to Mama, the Enforcer. Bert was a hard worker. Ricky and I loved to read his comic books. Bert took his Bible to church and listened. Ricky and I drew cute pictures or played Tic Tac Toe on the bulletins and some Sundays we didn’t even get pinched! Bert was studious, somewhat serious, though friendly. I was the clown and he, my perfect audience. I loved to make him shake his head and laugh. Ricky began life somewhat shy but grew into his clownhood as an adult. Bert remains our best fan.

Katy, our 3rd child, clowning with me at school Clown Day

In 1965 Bert and I began a new segment in our lives. We both went to the same college. I was a freshman and he returned to his alma mater, Free Will Baptist Bible College, as Director of Publications. He’d pastored in New Hampshire for the two years prior. Recently he retired from his beloved college after 44 years. He was honored in many fitting, dignified ways.

The beginning of that career was a bit different, thanks to me, his own personal clown. Part of freshman orientation back then, was a faculty reception where the new students met college dignitaries in a receiving line.

I carefully stationed myself close to the end of the line, as it snaked its way from the president down to the peon, Bert-the-Newbie. He looked the academic part, so dapper in his dark suit, starched white shirt and conservative tie. He greeted each freshman with his characteristic smile and warmth.

That genuine love became his hallmark over the years. He loves people, especially students, and they know it. His door is always open (both home and office.) His soft shoulder, ever available. His listening ear remains alert. Godly wisdom flows, not only from his lips, but his life.

But I’m getting ahead of myself here. This opening night of his 44 year career held only promise of all that. Like a majestic eagle, Bert perched from his launch, ready to soar in dignity.

He spotted me coming his way, as he shook other hands.

“Hello. I’m Mr. Tippett. Welcome to Bible College. And your name?”

One by one, he made each feel so special. But I knew I was moreso.

When I reached him, his smile broadened. I could see he was proud of me. I smiled back. It was the first smile I’d cracked all evening, saving it for him, my dear BB. When I did, I revealed a blackened front tooth I’d penciled on…just for him! His smile faded, then it was his eyes that widened.

His dignity melted into sweat droplets as his eyes darted down the receiving line all the way to President Johnson. He realized I’d just introduced myself to every one of his co-workers. By name. “I’m Kathy Tippett.”

“Oh. You’re Mr. Tippett’s sister.”

Eagle feathers drooped. But he soared anyway. At some point in time, I’m pretty sure I told him my smile was meant only for him. THEN he laughed. Always my best audience.

As I gathered pictures for this blog, imagine my surprise when I found this one. Imagine his surprise when he sees it here!

Hm-mmmm. Mr. BB Dignified may be a closet clown himself! Or maybe I just rubbed off on him. If you look closely here, you might see us reverse roles a little even in childhood.

Other snaggle-toothed family members hang out on our tree, so it could be like the cowboy with diarrhea...it's all in the genes.

Me and Ricky in our Billy-Bob duds! His teeth were a
Christmas gift from me and he loved them!

Bert has terminal cancer. I love him with all my broken heart. I weep even as I write this. He’s still my hero. When you hear his story, I think he’ll become yours too.

Blessings!
Kathy (Meet another family member below.)

WELCOME, JORDAN!

Our newest & 12th grandchild came Monday only 58 minutes after getting to the hospital.

Jordan Daniel VanKesteren

7 lbs. 5 oz.

20 inches

9/14/09

MOTHERHOOD OR ROBINHOOD

Our little Kimberly sang fortissimo (VERY loudly!) from the next room, “And crown Thy good with…”

Abrupt pause sent feet scampering to my side. She sputtered breathlessly, “Mama, is it Robinhood or motherhood? I never can remember which.”

It’s motherhood, usually motherhood, that curls around my heart and hugs out a smile or tear. I cry watching strangers on the TV show Having a Baby.

Ask any mom about that moment when she earned her title. It’s a strange mix of human agony and divine ecstasy. There’s truly a sense of eternity and God’s presence but we're also keenly aware that anything beginning with the word labor isn’t going to be easy.

I remember praying aloud when Kimberly was born. My words were a stream of consciousness, “Oh thank You, Jesus! Thank You! How will I know what to do? She's beautiful! Oh, Lord, please help me!"

A large black aide assisted me. She smiled knowingly at my maternal ravings. She knew the Lord. She knew motherhood. I knew I’d never forget her but figured she’d never remember me, among so many births she attended.

But she did. Here’s why.

Next morning after my firstborn was first born, at about 2 AM, the same aide brought her to me to nurse. (Back then only 2 babies in a full nursery were not bottle fed, Kimberly and a little boy. I'd just met his mother. We were either ahead of our time or behind vogue in the baby-feeding trend.)

At 4 AM I was awakened again by a crying infant needing to nurse. Man! I just fed her 2 hours ago!

Bleary eyed, I took the tiny thing to my breast. The aid left. The crying stopped. My eyes cleared a bit. My thoughts unraveled, My! Look at all that hair…seems to have grown in the last 2 hours…it’s even in a finger curl on top...she didn’t have enough to do that…”

I twirled the tiny arm band around the sweet baby wrist and read “Anderson Boy.” I blinked. Hard. Several times.

Not Henderson? Girl?

She’d brought me the wrong baby! I buzzed the aide then showed her. Horrified, she took the now contented man child from my arms. She begged me over and over, “Please don’t mention this to no one, Missy Henderson. I could lose my job.”

Get that bouffant! What WERE we thinking!?

I tried. I really tried. But Kimberly was brought to me again at 6 AM.

And by 7 I was finally getting some much needed sleep. My new friend, also a new mom (her third time), Mrs. Anderson, poked her head in my room, teasing, "Come on, Henderson! Get up and walk! MY boy slept through the night already."

I couldn’t stand it. “No, he didn’t already! And if you had to feed your baby and the other nursing kids, you’d sleep in too!” I chided her. We both cracked up. Shoulda billed her for wet nursing!

Two years later. Same hospital, same aid. Kent's being born and coming fast. No doctor there yet. I said to the sweet aid, “Hi! Do you remember me?”

“Shore, Honey,”she lied. (You tell women in labor whatever thay want to hear.)

I knew she was humoring me, so I recounted in a whisper, “I’m the one you brought the wrong baby to a couple of years ago to nurse…”

She froze. Her big eyes grew bigger, “Lawd have mercy, child, I DO remember you. Ple-eease, honey, don’t mention it to no one. I could lose my job.”

I got the best care all week. If I requested a glass of apple juice, she brought the whole bottle…no tiny plastic cups for me. No sir! "If you need anything, Missy Henderson, anything at all, you just buzz me now, ya hear?"

Doug was such an involved father those first days at home but night shifts were my lot, by nature of the feedings. One long night, however, I'd been up countless times with Kimberly. Feeding and diapering done, she cried out yet once again.

I begged a groggy Doug, “Honey, could you please check on her? I’m exhausted. She’s fed and dry.”

He stumbled down the hall. I heard her crying stop. So I pulled the covers to my chin and nestled in. Ah-hhhh, blissful sleep...

Then I heard the most horrific crash and groan, followed by silence. He’s killed my baby!

I flew to the nursery, turned on the light and saw Doug sitting on the floor by the rocker. Kimberly was safe in his right arm as he rubbed his backside with his left.

He answered my unasked question, “I reached for what I thought was the left arm of the rocker. It was the right.”

When he felt himself going down, he protectively grabbed her with both arms, sacrificing himself to save her. My hero! Superman!

Doug on a better rocker day and Kimberly eventually rocking herself

But I rarely woke him up after that.

Except once more as I recall. Same scenario but this time, feeling his way around the room, he stumbled into our closet, not the hall door. I watched in the shadowy darkness. Surely he’ll soon figure out that he’s in our closet. It was rigged so the light clicked on when the door opened, like a car. But he just went in, closed it and remained there in the dark.

So I finally went to her. When I came back to bed he was there fast asleep. Next morning he had no recollection of it.

Night shift was permanently mine.

Wrong baby. Wrong arm of chair. Wrong room. Right Daddy...just wrong role.

God ordained motherhood with unique abilities. We wear a crown. Our throne is the rocking chair. Our scepter may be a thermometer or a spatula in any given moment.

Our baby girl, Katy, will give birth to her fourth son any day now. As you read this, I'm in Canada with her and Dave, hopefully in time to welcome Jordan, our 12th grandchild, to our zany world!

And crown thy good with motherhood!

I’m singing loudly!

Blessings!
Kathy

"THIS IS MY BELOVED SON"

Our only son, Kent, was due on Christmas Day. One church lady boldly asked me about his due date, “What were you and Doug thinking, having a baby come on Christmas Day?"

“Well, we weren’t thinking about Christmas that March night!” That pretty well shut her up. He actually arrived one day early.

A few years later Doug had the privilege of baptizing Kent. I remember his words, “I baptize you, my son…now my brother, in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.”

Doug once revisited the creek where he himself was immersed as a boy.

His father, also a preacher, baptized him.

Last week history repeated itself in the Henderson family. Father once again baptized son, as our Kent joined his Sean in the baptismal waters. It was their own backyard pool the church used. Not an unfamiliar place to Sean but with 50 or so faces watching, the scene was a bit intimidating.

Another church lady was kinder this go round. She arrived at their house, camera in hand, to capture the moment. She was testing the lighting when Sean said to her, “Dad’s been practicing with me so I’d know what it was like. And I’m gonna pretend like it’s just me and him in the pool…that way I won’t be scared.” (Thank you, Melanie!)

A family in Kent’s church brought back some water from the Jordan River. They mentioned to the pastor, “We thought it might be special to use some of the same water Jesus was baptized in.”

Pastor Jason found a creative way to anoint each candidate with a drop of the Jordan River before entering the pool.

When Jesus was baptized by a relative in the Jordan River, His Father also looked on and smiled, “This is my beloved Son, in Whom I am well pleased.”

We echo that voice from heaven.

Father, when I’m afraid or in unfamiliar waters, help me keep my eyes on You only. Then I won’t be so scared.

And the things of earth will grow strangely dim,
in the light of Your glory and grace.

We're blessed to be

Blessings!

Kathy