Heaven on Earth

It has been several weeks since I first connected with Kevin and his children, and we have all fallen deeply in love with one another. Quickly, I realize. I will admit that I initially questioned the events at hand, but I realized that all of this is simply a gift from that Higher Power about Whom I previously spoke, questioned, and promised to never doubt again.

We are a weekend family for now, which is tough for everyone involved, but as Kevin says—and this will not be verbatim—it is much better to feel the pain of the separation than to not have something to be separated from.  I have never felt an affinity with another being since my grandparents left this earth many years ago. They were my life, and even after their deaths, I could often be found lying beside their headstone, sleeping, dreaming of days gone by. It is where I spent my college graduation day staking my tassel to the ground watching its red and black strands flap in the wind, and then later it is where I stood and cried as a new chapter opened in my life which would lead me away from them but allow me to help students less fortunate than myself.

I spoke to my grandparents after I reunited with Kevin, and I told them that it had finally happened. I had finally met that man who was like my brother, Jeromy, in so many ways: a wonderful father who makes promises he can keep. That is all I had ever expected from a man. That, and one who would honor my hopes and desires to make a small difference in the lives of those whose paths have been known to cause even the strongest of men to stumble. I walked that path, and therefore I feel it is my calling and the calling of my children to take the hand of those who are chosen to struggle and ultimately survive it. Kevin understands, and, most importantly, he accepts that aspect of my life—of our lives together.

I told my grandparents about his children. I told them about our children. I told them that our children are beautiful together, not just physically, but their hearts intertwine in a way that reminds me of the perfect line of poetry or a memory that many of us carry in our hearts to give us strength when days are long. Their laughter in the air and footsteps on the wooden floor are more musical than anything Vivaldi could have ever composed. Watching each of them sleep at night—all lying in the same bed—is powerful and miraculous, and a sight I will never erase from the depths of my mind.  For now, everything is very enchanting. Somehow, I have forgotten life as it was before the Kern family. Isaiah 65:17 tells us that our past troubles will be cleansed once we enter the gates of heaven. Perhaps I am already there…

Different Levels of Love

All of my life I have read a diverse selection of literature; both fiction and non-fiction. I have read stories about miraculous occurrences, both in the physical and spiritual realm. I have read of mortal love found through letters floating in bottles in the greatest depths of the ocean, and of love found post-mortem after deals have been made with angels wearing black cloaks. I have read it all while laughing in the face of those authors who perceive love—or rather whose characters perceive love—as an ideal that all humans must eventually come to terms with at some point in their lives. Unfortunately, for me, that sort of love was merely a plot scribbled on expensive paper and placed between leather bindings.

Now don’t get me wrong, love has certainly existed in my life. In fact, I love my children with all of my being. That love, of course, is not related to the aforementioned fictional accounts. It is a love that causes one to dominate in a completely different way than the male/female blinded version of love. Maternal love, though equally obsessive to marital love at times (or what I’ve read about it anyway), is one that forces a woman to get in touch with her mortality; it is one that constantly leaves a woman contemplating the “what-ifs” in life. It is a love that causes insomnia, not because of the lack of trust one experiences in the male/female version of love, but rather sleepless nights that begin at conception and don’t end until the day you are buried. It is a fearful yet satisfying love.

I have also felt a similar love with Mother Nature. Mother Nature, after all, has been the one constant in my life that has never taken anything away from me, but has faithfully been there to gift me with her beauty anytime I needed a reality check. During times of doubt that force me to have an internal pity party and question a higher power, Mother Nature has always been there to remind me that there is a God. And when I speak of God, I do not mean the entity that organized religion has misconstrued throughout the years. Not the hell-fire damnation egotistical divine force with whom we have a trusting relationship as children, but at the age of accountability we lose because, after all, we are only human. Instead, I speak of an ethereal beauty that only something as grandeur as God could be a part of.

It was Mother Nature who almost became the culprit to the near miss of my final chance at, what I thought, was simply fictional love. My brother and his family recently invited us to meet them at an amusement park, which was against everything I stood for, but something I knew we needed since we had not seen them in quite some time. Although I was willing to drive hundreds of miles to see my family, I was hoping to set up a tent when we arrived at our destination, not make reservations at a hotel. I was hoping to hike rocky trails with javelinas, not constructed walkways with misbehaved children. But alas, my youngest offspring, with whom I have hiked her entire life, convinced me that this new-age idea of fun would not skew her vision of tent-camping and rock-climbing. And so I packed our clothes and left the camping gear behind.

It is funny how life works sometimes. Over twelve years ago, the last time I saw my brother’s close friend, Kevin, he was married and I was a free-spirit who would have rather climbed Mt. Everest without a Sherpa or bottled oxygen than come close to being in a relationship (after having failed multiple times at it, of course). I always thought Kevin was cute, but way out of my league. He was well-dressed, while I was a walking fashion faux pas. He had attended college, and I was convinced that my obsession with literature was more than enough to help me survive in the world as I knew it. He had, and still has, a zest for life like no one I had ever met. I, on the other hand, was jaded and thought that happiness only appeared at the summit of a mountain.

Kevin happened to meet us at the amusement park on the trip that I would initially dread for over 400 miles. There’s not much I remember about that first day, except that he still wore that same smile borne from his never-ending zest for life, and he no longer wore a ring. I remember that we both shared the same fear of roller coasters, and that our children looked very content and beautiful walking down that constructed walkway hand in hand. Behaving. I remember leaving Dallas, and suddenly wanting to slam on my breaks and turn around on the interstate. For some reason, Kevin’s presence was no longer the norm, but instead something much more poetic. And so began a new chapter in my life and the lives of my children. In one simple weekend I learned that love is not always a mere genre.