Love Archives - karin madden

February 7, 2014 by Karin 11 Comments

The Real Fairy Tale

Not what she expected.

My sweet ten-year-old looked up at me from behind the soft covers. With tears in her eyes she mumbled,

Maybe your next anniversary will be better.

I cocked my head to the side,

Better than what?

She went on,

Maybe you and Dad will be able to go out and have dinner… I don’t know.

I smiled into her innocent eyes. These young recipients of endless princess tales vividly displayed on wide-screen. The princesses who get clothing lines and figurines and jewels. The ones who sing like angels and fight like brave hearts. The ones who struggle through adversity and end up in a life that’s – perfect. With a theme park thrown in.

I laughed,

Sweetie, this was a good anniversary. I got to see my honey… you know, Dad. I was able to hang out with all of you. We are healthy and fed and in a home – all together. That IS a good anniversary.

She looked at me suspiciously,

Ok. But, it’s your anniversary.

I went on, trying to convince this young girl of the beauty of simplicity,

Well, and maybe we can go out to dinner someplace really nice… really soon.

She smiled and hugged my neck,

Ok, Mom, that sounds great. Maybe you can drive to the mountains or something.

(I’m fairly sure she wanted to add… in a horse-drawn carriage)

I tucked her sweet innocence into bed, blew kisses, and turned off the light.

I looked at my warrior,

You know, she wonders why this wasn’t more romantic. She’s watching and wondering where the fairy tale is.

He and I both chuckled, knowing the fairy tale in this chapter is six sleeping children. That is a good anniversary.

Fairy tales. The funny thing is, I grew up hearing my mother’s German fairy tales, and they were far from the story we show our own kids. The original versions involved pain and healing, life and death, beauty and horror. I have books my mother saved – the old hardback German books from our childhood. The characters are running around with hair on fire and thumbs cut off. Pretty morbid stuff. And I didn’t fall apart… as far as I remember. The real stuff of real fairy tales… was real. Or at least not glossed over and fluffed up.

The beauty in the reality of it all… was the end. The redemptive stories intertwined with mayhem. A little bit more like… life.

The fairy tales on our screens today might just bring our princesses (and our princes) crashing down – to reality. There is romance, there is true love, there is charm and beauty… but, it’s not perfect. Not yet.

Don’t get me wrong. I love a beautiful ending all tied up in a bow. There is no Disney-deficiency anemia in our home.

I love that Pocahontas had a heart-gripping romance with John Smith – even though in real life it wasn’t true. In real life, legend has it, she was a brave soul who saved the neck of John Smith and married a man named John Rolfe. She was baptized a Christian and given the name Rebecca.

I love that little red-haired Ariel marries the prince, grows feet, and has a fabulously explosive wedding. Even though the mermaid fairy tale of my childhood told how the mermaid not only longed to be with the prince, but also deeply desired the eternal human soul. This eternal soul – mermaids don’t have. The story in our old German book ended in her death. It made me sad as a kid.

Yes, I love the glossy new versions, but I wonder if they really prepare our little warriors for the real deal? The battle in this life for faith and hope and love. And, it is a battle. The battle worth living for.

Hans Christian Andersen said it well,

Every person’s life is a fairy tale written by God’s finger.

Not the glossy versions, but the real, raw stories of recklessness and redemption… of doubt and deliverance… of fear and freedom. Of life and death. And, Life.

Maybe I’ll pull those old fairy tales out and read them to my kids. I’ll read the German version to the sound of giggles and translate the stories to English. The real versions, as they were really written. Maybe kids can handle the messy tales – knowing the glory is coming in the end.

The important part is the ending. It doesn’t always end well… here. The real ending hasn’t come yet. The best part – the real ending is the real beginning.

A confession. I already read the last page, and… spoiler alert…

Love wins.

Revelation 22:17

The Spirit and the bride say, “Come!” And let him who hears say, “Come!” Whoever is thirsty, let him come; and whoever wishes, let him take the free gift of the water of life.

January 9, 2014 by Karin 14 Comments

When We Don’t Know Much About The Proof Of Love

I hear their little voices ringing in the background. My head is starting to hurt. I hear the beep of the microwave reminding me the coffee from this morning has been reheated… again. And here I sit looking for revelation in a keyboard. I forgot again. Stop and pray and ask…

I’m listening to The Proof of Your Love and I remember now… 15 years ago.

Let my life be the proof of Your love.

I remember the vows this war bride took in a dimly lit church on a cold winter Saturday night in January. It was only months after I met him. Only months after our engagement. Only months after the first deployment. Separated from this man I loved and planned to marry – and I didn’t even know yet. I didn’t know how much things would change.

I called the Scottish priest on the phone. It was Saturday afternoon. Just the night before, our squadron commander pulled me aside, knowing we were planning a wedding,

They are leaving days from now. I just want you to know… in case you feel like you need to make plans.

The story is familiar to many military brides. The marriage… followed by the wedding.

I remember when we fell head over heels in just weeks… days, really. He pulled me close and told me of the risks of loving a warrior. You can lose more than your heart, you know. He wanted me to be sure – to give me one more chance to bail. You could have sooner cut my heart from my chest. I was in… for the long haul. Of course we don’t know what the long haul is when we hitch up our trailers.

The priest in his thick Scottish voice laughed,

Don’t marry him!

I laughed, relieved to find humor in the moment. He continued,

When is he leaving?

I answered, not quite believing the road we were on,

Only a few days now. Tuesday, I think. Will you marry us?

His tone took a note of warm sincerity,

Of course I will, my dear. Come to mass tonight. Six o’clock. Stay after everyone leaves. I’ll clear the church quickly and we’ll marry you then.

My head was spinning, but my heart beat steadily. The fast sure resolve in this beating chest reassured me. We don’t much need our heads in moments like this. They just get in the way. The heart – all things flow from this pumping organ.

We drove in the darkness toward the old brick church in the middle of our small southern town. Both sets of eyes facing forward as he reached for my hand. There is something about taking the grandeur out of a wedding; wearing a black skirt with a tan sweater, holding hands in the dark of night while you drive toward your wedding vows, that reminds you why you are jumping into this unknown. The proof of your love.

The service murmured in the back of our thoughts while we smiled knowingly at each other. He squeezed my hand tighter as he tilted his head toward the stained glass to our right. Marriage. The kaleidoscope of carefully placed mosaics glowed above us. Marriage. That’s what it said under the intricate hands that grasped each other – just like ours.

The service ended; our hearts raced. This fiery Scottish priest beamed and patted backs as he hurriedly ushered the masses to the door. He glanced over to us and smiled. The reassuring smile of man whose heart is driven by God,

I’d like for you to meet someone. I asked them to stay behind. We need witnesses, you know.

I didn’t know. I’d never done this bride thing before,

Oh, yes, of course.

We turned and smiled at the couple standing by the pews. They wore jeans and jackets and grinned at us wide-eyed.

The wife smiled sheepishly,

I would have worn something nicer than jeans if I had known we were going to a wedding tonight.

I laughed,

I haven’t known much longer than you.

We walked toward the altar and I looked up at the crucifix. The dim candlelight flickered time to a standstill. One of those moments that time becomes meaningless. The cross above us – the only other Witness to this union.

The moment hung in the air with the vows we pledged and the prayers we prayed. Our hearts beat a steady drum. Shaking hands placed the Claddagh of our wedding bands – friendship, love, and loyalty.

And the candles flickered. The proof of our love.

I looked up. His body nailed to that cross. I didn’t know much about the Man who hung above us. I knew enough to bring me into this House wrapped in glistening stained glass. I didn’t know much about Him then, even as the proof of His love hung before my newly married eyes.

I didn’t know much about hitching a wagon to a warrior’s life or the real meaning behind these sworn vows.

I didn’t know much about hearts melting together and living oceans apart over and over again.

I didn’t know much about love forming life and the patter of feet all over a home.

I didn’t know much about the stubbornness of self and pride and all the things that bring us to collide.

I didn’t know much about being willing to die for the new life that comes from this union under a cross – or being married to a man willing to die for a country.

I didn’t know love is good, love is hard, love is sacrifice.

I didn’t know much of anything, really.

I didn’t know the proof of love had been written Ages ago.

Faith is funny that way. It breathes life when you don’t even know you are breathing.

It enters that moment you are willing to bend a knee on an altar – even when you don’t quite know Whom you are bending a knee to.

It fills you up when you just begin to bow.

It enters your soul when you ask,

Who are You?

It was 15 years ago today. This war bride story of mine.

And all the while, the Son of Man has looked down and poured out the proof of His love.

And it doesn’t matter if we get it.

He. gets. us.

And we bend our knees and we bow…

and we whisper…

Thank You.

1 Corinthians 13:4-7, 13

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres…

And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.

November 13, 2013 by Karin 6 Comments

When We See There Are No Small Deeds

31 days of Good Deeds

(click here for the series)

~ Day 31 ~

Piled onto one bed.

That’s how we do it. That’s how we say our prayers at night.

I’m not sure which challenge is greater – fitting eight people onto one bed, or getting six little people to hold still long enough to finish our words to the One who holds this overcrowded bed together.

…and, please keep Daddy safe on his trip.

Little voices piled on request after request.

Mama finished with one final prayer,

Please, God, let something really cool happen on his trip. Please let him have an experience he can share with us when he gets home.

Please put him in front of someone.

I’m not sure why I asked for that. I’m learning to love the unexpected – the thrill of this journey.

Babies tucked in, bottoms patted, lullabies hummed, lights out.

It was a day trip for my warrior; a long flight in the morning with a return late into the night. These trips are a treat – the nights I know he’s coming home. Remembering endless evenings – and months upon months of nights alone – with these slumbering little ones.

He walked in the door just before midnight.

Squeezing me tightly, he said,

You’re not going to believe this story.

My eyes widened in anticipation – I love a good story.

I was sitting next to a woman on the plane. She was typing away at something.

Those airline seats. There’s nothing like being stuffed into a flying tube with one-hundred-fifty strangers, as we try our best to maintain personal space. Not much personal space in a two-by-two seat. We face forward hoping all goes well as we are propelled through the air in a chair. No wonder my warrior likes a single seat jet.

She was typing something and I could see that she was crying. I handed her a tissue and said, “I hope those are happy tears.”

She smiled, nodded, and took the tissue from my hand. “Oh, yes, my husband and I are flying out to adopt a newborn baby.”

My warrior went on,

Oh that’s great! How many kids do you guys have?

She smiled and said,

This will be our fourth. They are all adopted.

I love a good story about happy families, happy children, and happy endings. Then, he went on,

Karin, then she told me that this new baby… was born without a brain.

I froze and my eyes filled. My thoughts ricocheted between mommy love and speech pathologist truth. My mind went to countless souls, young and old, that I have treated with one brain disorder after another. No brain? I couldn’t believe what I was hearing,

He only has a brain stem.

The brain stem. The part of our brain that provides basic functioning: heart rate, breathing, sleeping, and eating. The basic functions that, on the surface, seem like the only things a newborn wants to do. But, there is so much more going on in a new healthy brain after it signals that first breath of life. So much hidden from our eyes in these new ones we bring into the world.

But, not this little one. Only a brain stem. No more.

My warrior, this daddy of six, continued,

She told me about the baby – she showed me his picture. He’s beautiful. He looks perfect. His mother has already signed him over. She can’t do it. She can’t take care of him. So, Karin, this lady and her husband are flying out to pick him up. They are taking him home.

I couldn’t quite believe what he was telling me, and then there was more,

So, we compared family photos. I showed her the kids and she showed me hers. Her older two are teenagers now. They also have a two-year-old. This toddler only has half of his brain. The left side is missing. She told me that he makes noises and climbs with his one functioning side. He loves to climb on his daddy. Karin, he’ll never talk.

The doctors told them that he would never walk; but he’s proved them wrong.

My mind spun. The left side of the brain, where language finds its home, is the reason our babies can whisper,

I love you.

He told me that she was worried. Not about the long-term. She was concerned about the things every mother of a new one wonders. How will I take care of a newborn and a toddler? She had done it before. Sometimes knowing what’s coming gives us pause. She spent her flight in the pause – thinking, talking, wondering. Until she and her husband would land and wrap arms around newborn life. This life, short of a miracle, would be brief.

Brief… but loved.

The young mother went on to tell my husband that they had only just been notified of this baby’s birth. It was a last-minute thing. He needed a home, and they got the call.

And, they said,

Yes.

She added,

I was just writing to my sister to tell her about the baby. I don’t know yet what we will name him. I wrote to her as you handed me a tissue… I told her that a good Samaritan next to me had just given me a tissue.

I smiled, as he told me,

Karin, I just gave her a tissue – she was crying. I’m no good Samaritan. They are adopting a baby with no… brain. I just gave her a tissue.

I hugged him hard,

To her, honey, you were a good Samaritan. It takes all good deeds, big and small, to change this place.

You know, I asked God to put you in front of someone. Someone with a story. He not only gave you a story…

He also dried her tears.

And, this… this is how it rolls. How this place spins. One good deed after another. One story more magnificent, more heart-wrenching, more eye-opening, more life-altering than the next. We all have stories. Stories pass us by day after day… as we move past each other.

The trick is… to open our eyes. Open our hearts... our ears. To find the space between.

To lay down our watches, our expectations, our previous notions.

There are no small deeds – in this world of great needs.

His watchful eye will place us face to face with soul after soul…

and, sometimes, all that is required is an open heart…

and a tissue.

Hebrews 10:23-25

Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for he who promised is faithful. And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds. Let us not give up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but let us encourage one another—and all the more as you see the Day approaching.

November 11, 2013 by Karin 4 Comments

When There Is More To The Story {for the Veterans}

31 days of Good Deeds

(click here for the series)

~ Day 30 ~

I was expecting something. Someone, really.

After weeks and weeks of eyes opening to people right in front of me – these people waiting with open hands – I’ve begun to expect. I don’t think they expect – I suppose a better word would be hope. They hope someone will notice.

But, I was on a mission. The gray hairs that force their way onto this mama’s head had arrived… again. One by one they show up and stand at attention. Like little gray soldiers demanding the right to be seen after years of deployments, endless work hours… and six kids. Well… and a little heredity thrown in, too.

No matter. It was time to subdue those determined (and multiplying) suckers.

Mission… hair dresser.

I was off and had no time for distractions during this sacred mama “me time.”

I don’t know how I ended up on that road. It wasn’t the road I intended to take. You know that coma driving we do when there are no distractions. I drove on in this grid-town. You can get anywhere if you know how to drive a square.

I looked up and saw him. He was an older man. He shuffled back and forth next to the cars. The red lights are the best places to get our attention. We have to actually try to look away.

I saw him wander back and forth as I glanced at the clock. No time. And, I drove on.

He registered in my mind as I drove past,

If You want me to stop for him, please remind me later. I don’t want to be late.

Hairs tamed, grays smothered, scalp massaged, and ends trimmed; I handed her the check. She’s a spunky local girl with a heart of gold and a lifetime of stories, though her life has been much shorter than mine. I hugged her neck and went on my way – delighted that suffocating gray hairs is much cheaper in this town than the last.

It was then that He reminded me,

Go back to the guy at the corner.

I’m learning to listen, so I turned the truck in the direction of the old man with the cardboard sign.

I’ll tell you, once you give once, it becomes something you want to do again and again. As if He designed us to give… to love.

I was prepared to give the man a bill, when He interrupted my thoughts,

You know what you just paid for your hair? Give him that much.

I can’t say that I argued, but I did ask Him for clarification,

That much? Is that what I should give?

Truth, I had never handed someone a wad of bills like that… it’s different went you write a check or swipe a card.

Do you only trust Me $20 worth?

And that’s really where the truth lies. Do I only trust Him 20 dollars worth – or as much as my comfort will allow?

I smiled as my hand began to shake. I knew. I didn’t want to be that person. The 20-dollar-truster… the only-this-much-but-no-more giver.

I pulled my car around to the light and rolled down my window. I glimpsed his sign – Vietnam vet. Please help.

What’s your name?

A smile appeared on his weathered, tired face. He could have been my father, my father-in-law, my uncle.

Jim.

Of course it was Jim. Just another version of James.

Jim, I’m going to pray for you. Thanks for your service. I hate that you are standing out here asking for money.

He looked at the bills in his hand as his eyes widened,

Thank you! Oh, God, thank you.

He walked away as I waited for light. I saw him turn back in a hurry. He had just counted his bills,

Oh my God. Thank you! What is your name? You have no idea what you’ve just done for me. I’m not getting my social security. You have no idea.

I smiled as I felt my heart surge,

I wish I could give you more, Jim.

His teary eyes bore into mine as he replied,

Oh no. This is just… unreal. You are going to heaven, Karin. I won’t ever forget this.

There is something about giving, about doing good, that begins to transform a heart. It shamed me for ever having been blind to people around me, and it reminded me of how much I have to be grateful for.

My husband is a veteran. My brother is a veteran. My brother-in-law is a veteran. My father is a veteran. This man, someone’s family, is a veteran.

So, just when you think you know the whole of a story… God gives you more to take in.

Weeks went by. Then, yesterday, of all people, I saw Jim.

He stood there on the corner, same sign in his hand, and waited. Vietnam Vet. Please Help.

Did you know that the US Department of Housing and Urban Development estimates that 62,619 veterans are homeless on any given night? On top of that, about 1.4 million other veterans are considered at risk of homelessness due to poverty, lack of support networks, and dismal living conditions in overcrowded or substandard housing.

I rolled down my window and smiled at the familiar face,

Hi, Jim.

His eyes brightened as he beamed,

Are you Karin? I’ve been thinking about what you did. Do you know that you paid my rent for the whole week?

I grinned and answered,

I hoped it was for something like that. I’ve been praying for you, Jim. Why are you out here?

He leaned in and told me the story of his wife passing away, of things going wrong, of life turning upside down.

This is so embarrassing, you know.

I nodded,

Jim, you could be my dad, or my father-in-law, or my uncle. Do your kids know you are here?

His eyes went to the ground as he shrugged,

Actually, my daughter told me to come out here.

What do you say to that? I looked into the old man’s eyes and gave him a handful of rent.

Here, Jim, this will cover your rent this week. I’ll keep praying for you.

His eyes filled as he touched my hand,

Thank you, Karin, the prayers are working. Things are turning around. God bless you.

I’m going home now.

I smiled as the light turned green. Time to go. He waved as I turned the corner. My friend, Jim. The veteran dodging homelessness on a street corner. The man who dodged bullets for his country, now begging handouts on the street – at the urging of his daughter.

I’m not sure which wrecked me more. A veteran serving, now begging; or a father sacrificing, now breaking.

I drove home to my warrior, my very own veteran. The house bustled and brimmed with a daddy and his two sons… and four daughters.

I watched those little ones wrap arm after arm around their daddy’s neck, and I whispered to Him,

God, bless this veteran… and his children. And, may his daughters never forget their daddy’s sacrifice.

Happy Veteran’s Day – and endless thanks to you and your families for your sacrificial service.

1 John 4:9-11

This is how God showed his love among us: He sent his one and only Son into the world that we might live through him. This is love: not that we loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as an atoning sacrifice for our sins. Dear friends, since God so loved us, we also ought to love one another.

November 7, 2013 by Karin 2 Comments

The Longest Walk

31 days of Good Deeds

(click here for the series)

~ Day 26 ~

Sometimes the longest walk… is across the room.

I remember that day like it was yesterday. Though the reflection in my mirror proves it was more than a few yesterdays ago. I remember it.

The doors of that magnificent old church opened. Both arched doors revealed a sea of faces waiting for one nervous bride.

I remember my girlfriend Kim fretting over her hair as her nerves tingled in last minute stage fright.

I remember my dad, handsome, standing straight and proud holding my arm. His German accent whispered in my ear as the gates to wedded bliss opened wide.

I remember taking those first few steps as the breath caught in my throat and the tears hovered in my lashes.

I heard the whisper of my warrior’s pilot comrade to my left,

Awesome.

I smiled to myself thinking I had succeeded at pulling off the perfect Princess Bride makeover.

I peered and saw the Scottish priest in his cowboy boots. Beaming.

Overwhelming. The crowd stood like a wave surging over a small unsuspecting shell sunning on the sand.

Breathtaking. The faces of people I loved, some I barely knew, some I didn’t know I would grow to love over the years. This family of friends and relatives welcomed me into the room.

And, I began to walk.

I remember a few faces in the sea. They smiled through my blurry eyes and my heart swelled.

I walked.

Then, I saw him.

Smiling and standing proud in his mess dress. Surrounded by his brothers, my brothers, and friends who had become brothers.

My feet carried me, I think. But, really, it was my heart.

And, we met at the altar.

This walk burned into my memory. I can close my eyes and see it still.

Then, the years rush. They pull and they push and the waves crash over and over again.

The ride is up and down over the swell.

I remember a song my girlfriend Jennifer and I used to play and repeat… and repeat. Big fans of Big Head Todd and The Monsters.

Bittersweet.

The song intrigued us as the single girls. The lyrics… they are just a little bit sad. How would we avoid the bittersweet?

It’s bittersweet

More sweet than bitter,

bitter than sweet.

It’s a bittersweet surrender.

The walk that day. Nothing but sweet. Completely and wholly surrendered.

And the years keep rolling and the waves keep crashing. And the lyrics come back to me…

I know we don’t talk about it.

We don’t tell each other.

All the little things that we need.

We work our way around each other…

As we tremble and we bleed.

The song still whispers a heartache. I’ve watched it happen. So many times, I’ve seen my friends tremble and bleed.

And my warrior and I, we have trembled and bled just a few times, too.

We work our way around each other. We ride these waves. And we just want to keep our heads above the water. But, really, we want to stand on the water and walk. We want to walk this walk together. We want to meet at the altar.

The good deed.

I met a couple of new friends a few weeks ago. I asked them for good deeds and I waited for stories about heroic acts and gifts given in secret. Then, Shannon smiled and told me,

I walked across the room and gave my husband a glass of water.

I stopped and looked into her eyes.

She went on,

We had been disagreeing and I was so frustrated with him. But, I wanted to make peace.

So, I served him. I walked across the room and gave him a glass of water.

And, it changed everything.

Another brave heart I had just met, Karen, she laughed and said,

I just brought my husband tea.

We weren’t in the best place with each other and were both frustrated.

I made him a cup of tea.

I walked across the room and handed it to him. And, he melted.

I smiled at the simplicity of the deed. The simplest deed is sometimes the very hardest one.

I thought about the times my warrior and I have battled on our own hills.

Sometimes the walk across the room… is the longest walk.

This ride, these waves, the best deed… walk across the room completely and holy surrendered.

The sweet surrender.

The longest walk… our feet won’t carry us.

But, in surrender… our hearts can.

As we meet at the altar again… and again.

Ephesians 5:1-2

Follow God’s example, therefore, as dearly loved children and walk in the way of love, just as Christ loved us and gave himself up for us as a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God.

The Real Fairy Tale

When We Don’t Know Much About The Proof Of Love

When We See There Are No Small Deeds

When There Is More To The Story {for the Veterans}

The Longest Walk

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