Part 12 (2/2)
These days, Kevin rolls up at the end of a long day and is met in the driveway by Cypress, River, Trinity, Jack, and Arnold, our most recent edition. (All the other dogs are named after rivers, but Arnold is just so Arnold.) Even though Kevin's been on his feet and up to his elbows all day, instead of kicking back in a recliner, he shuts off the TV, shrugs off the Greek chorus of woe, and within five minutes, there's an adventure under way. He's got the girls trooping out the door and down the drive, which gives me a moment to catch up on e-mail and get dinner started.
By the time they roll on home for supper, there's always a huge story to tell, and we gather at the table, everyone talking at once. ”We went hiking about three miles, and there was this road-” ”Go wash those hands, please.” ”Yeah, a road where the bridge washed out, and tunnels under, and a culvert that follows a dry creek bed.” ”Anna, put some salad dressing on the table.” ”The road's abandoned, and people dumped some furniture back there.” ”Mommy, I need my other jeans washed tonight.” ”Within twenty steps, you're exploring Narnia.” ”What jeans?” ”You know! The ones I like.” ”No cars go there anymore, so we explored.” ”And we danced! It was so fun.”
”Shall we say grace?”
We hold hands in an unbroken circle around the table.
”Heavenly Father,” Kevin says, ”we thank you for this beautiful day. For these beautiful children. For this food we're about to eat. Bless it to our bodies. Let it strengthen us to do your will and be your light in the world. Amen.”
”Pa.s.s the potatoes, please.”
”Daddy,” says Anna, ”what did you watch on TV when you were a kid?”
”Not much,” he says. ”We were only allowed thirty minutes a day.”
The Greek chorus wails at the very idea: Nooooooo! Oh, Gran Jan! How could she be so cruel?
Kevin says, ”We liked Dukes of Hazzard. Luke Duke. Daisy Duke.”
”Daisy Duke?” says Abbie. ”Like the shorts?”
”Yeah, that's why they're called Daisy Dukes. Didn't you know that?”
”Lies!” says Adelynn. ”Lies and blasphemy.”
”Mommy,” says Anna, ”I really, really need those jeans.”
And now you know everything there is to know about the elevated spiritual conversations that go on around the Beam family supper table. Believe me, it only gets worse, because this family was ruthlessly trained not to be uptight about the discussion of bodily functions. After the girls go to bed, Kevin and I will sit with a gla.s.s of wine and discuss important matters like the cooler weather coming and how astonis.h.i.+ng it is that Christmas is just a few weeks away and what will be the budget for that, or he might tell me something about castrating bulls today. That's as philosophical as it gets most evenings.
Beyond our kitchen window, across the field, the cottonwood stands in the moonlight. The branch that formed the castle bridge gave way and crashed down to the ground one windy night when the Beam sisters were snug in their beds, but the tree itself has grown taller. The heart-shaped leaves rustle on the wind. Birds nest in the branches. Squirrels sit on the spiky lip of the decaying grotto and spy on comings and goings over on the road. We keep trying to recall if it ever blossomed before-and Kevin swears it didn't-but it does now. High, high, high in the branches, those soft white tufts bloom and let go, and the wind takes them to who knows where.
After we were in the news, people kept asking Kevin, ”So, Dr. Beam, have you cut down that old cottonwood tree yet?”
Finally one day, he reluctantly went out there with a chain saw. He took down a few of the smaller trees-the ones the girls had used to climb up to the grotto-but he couldn't bring himself to take down the cottonwood. He stood there for a while with the chain saw in his hands, studying the dense bark and soaring branches. Then very carefully, he stepped up to the broad trunk and carved a cross. Straight and true. A symbol of both suffering and salvation.
I cried the first time I saw it, and some days I go out there to pray. It makes me feel small and awestruck and glad. It makes me think about something Anna said: ”G.o.d is always there, and He has His own ways of working things out.”
Could there be a greater source of peace than that simple affirmation? When life brings hards.h.i.+ps beyond our understanding, it's not up to us to look for the silver lining. We are the silver lining. We become G.o.d's well-tuned instruments of peace, His gift to one another, each of us a miracle, according to His strange and wonderful plan.
Acknowledgments.
From the cowardice that dare not face new truth, from the laziness that is contented with half truth, from the arrogance that thinks it knows all truth, good Lord, deliver us.
Kenyan Prayer.
This story is my truth as I remember it. Some events and people had to be composited, and dialogue was reconstructed for narrative purposes, but I've done my best to stay true to the content of those conversations, the facts of the events, and the spirit of the relations.h.i.+ps portrayed in this book. Others, of course, may have their own recollections or perceptions of events.
Though I learned a great deal about pseudo-obstruction motility disorder and antral hypomotility disorder on our journey, I do not consider myself a medical expert, and no part of this ma.n.u.script should be construed or misconstrued as medical information or advice. My opinions do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Alsbury Baptist Church or any other const.i.tuencies or organizations who've hosted or will in the future host me as a speaker.
Kevin and I are more grateful than we can express to Dr. Nurko, Dr. Siddiqui, Dani Dillard, and all the wonderful caregivers who looked after Anna at Cook Children's and Boston Children's Hospital. Same goes for the amazing Briaroaks Volunteer Fire Department. We also cherish and appreciate our church family at Alsbury Baptist, my wonderful family, Kevin's wonderful family, Angela Cimino, Nina and the Cash crew, and many other friends who stepped in to help us, feed us, and look after our girls. They are too many to mention, but each one is special in my heart, and I am deeply grateful.
Heartfelt thanks to my agent, the fabulous Nena Madonia of Dupree/Miller & a.s.sociates, who's been a tireless advocate for this book through some stormy seas. Mauro DiPreta's faith in our story and belief in this project has been life-changing for me. Huge thanks to him and everyone at Hachette.
Abigail, Annabel, and Adelynn-listen, sisters, you know that you are my heart and soul. When you read this book to your children someday, I hope you'll tell them, ”Yes, my mama was a little nutty sometimes, but she loved me. Of that there is no doubt.” When I praise G.o.d from whom all blessings flow, you are the best, brightest blessings a mom could ever imagine.
And to my husband, Dr. Kevin Beam... babe, you already know. But I plan to keep telling you for the rest of my life.
Christy Beam.
Burleson, Texas.
Spring 2015.
About the Author.
CHRISTY WILSON BEAM was born and raised in Abilene, Texas, where she was a teacher for several years. After marrying her college sweetheart, she left teaching to focus on raising the couple's three girls. Christy and her family now reside near Burleson, Texas, where they are members of Alsbury Baptist Church.
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