by John Creasey
11
Love Unexpected
Since God determined the time and exact places you would live (Acts 17:26), it’s no accident which neighborhood you grew up in, who lived next door, who went to school with you, who was part of your church youth group, who was there to help you and pray for you. Our relationships were appointed by God, and there’s every reason to believe they’ll continue in Heaven.5 ~ Randy Alcorn
Does every young woman dream about her future? Perhaps, if she believes it will be filled with something good. I can’t recall ever dreaming specifically about marriage or career. However, I knew what I did not want. I would not marry the man my mother had chosen for me. This was one control issue with her I was determined to win.
The love of my life showed up quite unexpectedly. My introduction to Ward, in February of 1955, was an “accident” caused by a misunderstanding of who the “friends” were who were coming to meet us at Joan’s house. I was expecting someone I knew from across town, not a male gospel quartet from Central Bible College. For Ward, who sang bass, our first meeting was an incidental part of a sightseeing tour of Tulsa Oklahoma, my home town. A means to an end. Having come from a very small town, he just wanted to see the biggest city he’d ever been in.
We met that night in Joan’s driveway and since it was dark, I couldn’t see his face, nor was I much interested. Meeting another man training for ministry from CBC was not the fulfillment of any potential dreams of mine. I was told (much later) that he and Geoff stood behind the car and flipped a coin to see where to sit. Right side was Jo, left side was me. Ward likens it now to the casting of lots in the Old Testament, when seeking divine direction. I’m not so sure. All I know is Joan, Carl, Brent and Clyde sat in the front seat. Ward sat next to me.
We four squeezed into the back seat of the small four-door 1954 Ford Fairlane and were off to tour the beautiful city I loved. Conversation with Ward was easy and humorous. He was straightforward with his answers to my questions and I liked him. He must have liked me, too, for a letter came the next week suggesting he could come again the following weekend. His school in Springfield Missouri, was over two hundred miles from Tulsa, but weekend visits continued and so did the daily letters. ~ DLT diary, 2015
We toss the coin, but it is the Lord who controls its decision ~ Proverbs 16:33 TLB.
Love at first sight? I can’t honestly say that. I may have blinked once. After all, I was a seventeen-year-old college freshman, two thousand miles from home. What did I really know about anything? But I came away interested, yes indeed. I had enjoyed sitting crushed together in the car with someone who, from all I could see in the flickering lights as we drove around the city, was very attractive. She spoke with pride about her city, words flowing across her lips with a soft southern accent as she described various sites and buildings, including the iconic Art Deco Philtower, where she worked.
And the way she laughed. You can tell a lot about a person by how they laugh. I liked the ease and unforced spontaneity in her laughter, leaving me with the feeling of laughing with, not at anyone. The time for getting acquainted with eight people crammed into a moving vehicle, talking, laughing, and innocently touching, passed quickly. Everyone seemed to be having a good time.
At our very conservative Christian college there was a well-intentioned item in the Code of Student Conduct loosely referred to as the “six-inch rule,” which stated there should be no handholding or touching of the opposite sex in any way at any time. On this night in Tulsa, five guys and three girls, taking in the sights of the city while stuffed together in a small automobile, totally flunked that rule. Since we were off campus and conducted ourselves properly in every other way throughout the evening as befitted young Bible college students, we granted ourselves amnesty. I’m sure the dean of men would have been proud of us had he known. Wisely, we never told him.
Eventually we returned to Joan’s home and went inside for some promised tea and cookies in a more spacious setting. It was my first opportunity to sit directly across from the young woman with whom I had just ridden around the city, side by side, for the past two hours. As conversation continued, with an ease young people in groups seem universally to possess, I couldn’t stop glancing at her.
The person I’d been talking to, mostly in the dark, now sat in front of me in a well-lit living room. She wore a sleeveless patterned top, the colors were, I think, a light coral and gray, though with the passing of years I cannot be certain; her legs crossed beneath a long denim skirt, and hands folded neatly on her lap. The girls were dressed for a casual evening that had been interrupted by our unexpected appearance.
Yet somehow she had turned into this vivacious, dark-haired beauty with the most amazing brown eyes, and an infectious smile that could fill the room whenever she wanted to. I all at once found myself groping for words to fill in blank spaces; verbs and adjectives and nouns that had come so naturally such a short time ago were gone. I looked around at the others, reassuring myself I could hold my own with anyone else in the room. But this one across from me . . . instinctively I knew the random flip of a coin had placed me next to a woman in a class all her own. A sophisticated city girl had just spent the evening with a country boy who knew deep down he was a long way from home!
But by the time I was back in my college dorm room and done describing this incredible person I had just met to my roommate, I worked up enough courage to write her a letter. The first of many that were to follow between us. Five hundred and eleven actually, all handwritten and all still tucked away for our children and grandchildren to one day discover and pore over; hopefully, by that time, having learned to laugh with and not at their elder lovers from another generation as they read.
I will tell you this much. The first letter was written in February 1955, and is no great loss to literary antiquity. After numerous letters back and forth in March of that year (postage stamps were only 3 cents; airmail 6 cents), Dixie signed off on April 7, using for the first time the word, “Love.” When I saw it I was over the top with enthusiasm, taking this as a signal that our affections were headed in the right direction.
Why so many letters? Keep in mind the Bible college I attended was over two hundred miles one-way from Tulsa. I worked, sang in concerts, plus every Sunday night with Revivaltime choir on the ABC radio network, traveled with the King’s Ambassadors quartet (the group responsible for Dixie’s and my meeting in the first place), and carried a full academic load. Dixie worked full-time supporting both herself and her mother. We were busy! The actual amount of time spent together over the sixteen months of our courtship? About six weeks. And did I say we were very young?
A first meeting and first letter in February: Dear Dixie . . . I had a lot of fun Saturday . . . Dear Ward . . . It was a nice surprise to get your letter today . . . Revivaltime was really good Sunday night. Joan and I were listening . . .
More letters.
Numerous weekend concerts in churches in eastern Oklahoma.
More letters.
A spring Revivaltime Choir tour throughout the South.
More letters.
A summer concert tour with the King’s Ambassadors Quartet.
Lots more letters!
“You know, one thing I’ve noticed the last two months is the closer to the Lord I get, the more I seem love you. I never felt quite like this before. It’s all so crazy and yet so wonderful. I’ve never been more contented in my life. Maybe this wonderful thing that has happened to me has just begun to dawn on me that it’s really true. I’ll be so glad when you get here. These last few days will probably drag by. I love you. I would give almost anything to see you tonight. But it won’t be long now.” ~ DLT letter 7, August 1955
A first answer to “Darling, will you marry me?” came on a warm summer evening, 25 August, beneath the old oak tree in front of her home.
A first and last wedding date set for 2 June, the following year.
A young man and woman, with so much still to learn, tie their love
together in handwritten letters filled with faith and hope and the anticipation of forever after.
The reason why so many letters.
For a twenty-year-old girl, planning my wedding should have been filled with excitement and anticipation. In reality, it was a time of inner turmoil and outward struggle. Mom refused to be involved in the planning. She also gave me an ultimatum; if Dad walked me down the aisle, she would not attend. I also worried about the future for both of us. I had taken on the support of Mom and for three years had provided for our needs. How would she live?
Ward’s call to the ministry was troubling to me. I emphatically did not want to be a pastor’s wife. I observed close up friends who had married into a life in ministry and was quite sure it was not for me. My desire was for a quiet life; besides I knew I would never fit in church ministry. Ward, however, had chosen to be a military chaplain, which meant many more years of school to qualify. We knew it would not be easy, but we were willing to work hard to achieve his goals. In reality it was a blind leap into the future.
“And they lived happily ever after” doesn’t quite fit this narrative. After the wedding we traveled to our new home in Springfield, a tiny basement apartment which our mothers had already helped us settle into. I soon got a job working days. Ward already had a job working nights; an arrangement that worked well with his school schedule, but not with a new bride. Pay was low and college bills loomed large. Ward would be a junior, but seminary would come after graduation. Reality hit like a thunderbolt.
It had taken less than six weeks. ~ DLT diary, 2015
12
A New Normal
In times of uncertainty, the easiest thing to do is revert to what you know. Ward knew he could get a job in the wheat harvests working to earn money for our immediate needs. He also knew Northwest College in Seattle to be a good alternative to Central Bible College in Springfield. So, we packed up a U-Haul trailer, took a detour through Tulsa to say goodbye to my family, and drove west. When calculating the cost of gasoline, we had not thought how the drag of our trailer would affect mileage through the Rocky Mountains, nor how far our picnic-type food would satisfy our hunger. It was nothing short of a miracle that the gas was sufficient, and our bellies, although not full, weren’t empty. We arrived at Nadeen and Earl’s house in the wee hours of the morning with an empty gas tank and grateful hearts. Wheat was ripe and Ward worked in the harvest fields for the rest of the summer. ~ DLT diary, 2015
Monday, 21 April. It is the beginning of a new week and of what is rapidly becoming our new normal. Blood draw is set for 3:30 today. We arrive at SCCA the requisite “15 minutes ahead of your appointment time, please.” After the draw, there is an appointment at 4:30 with Dr. Chiorean. At 5 o’clock, we are getting restless. At 5:15, we’re the only ones left in the waiting area. At twenty after, a nurse comes to lead us to an exam room. First, the usual “birthdate?” (still the same), “weight?” (gained a pound), “blood pressure?” (A little high?) Hello, with this much time waiting there’s a reason for that!
“Doctor will be here shortly. She’s running late” (don’t say it).
At a quarter-to-six, I step out into the hall.
“Hello. Is anybody here?”
A lone face peeks around the corner.
“Just checking. Didn’t want to think we’d been forgotten?”
I go back to the room where Dixie is sitting. And wait. A new person comes to explain that Dr. Chiorean is running late but will be here shortly. She has been working with a patient through an interpreter. Okay, a reason for lateness that I understand. I’ve taught in situations requiring interpreters and it takes extra time to get it done. Part of the new day of ethnic diversity in which we live in America.
Eventually, Dr. Chiorean opens the door and hurries in, with apologies.
Is it obvious that waiting is not my spiritual gift? I’m working on it as a skill (still a ways to go), but it is definitely not a gift. However, after all is said and done, it is hard to be upset with someone as nice as Dr. Chiorean. She is a special lady. Gabriela. Dr. Park refers to her affectionately as, Gabby. I usually move to a first name basis with people quickly, but for some reason with her, I do not. To me she is still Dr. Chiorean. Maybe someday. It is nearing 6:30 when Dixie asks about her accent. Romanian. I tell her I was in her homeland shortly after the revolution, at a time when my friend, Bob Pagett, founder and president of the then fledgling Assist International, and I went there to see what we could do to help.
We entered the country on a winter’s night train from Belgrade; one with no heat and minimal lighting. As it happened, we were seated across from two women who turned out to be nurses. One of them spoke a little English. When we asked what was needed in Romania’s medical world, they said medical supplies of any kind were desperately needed, starting with such basics as needles and surgical gloves.
Dr. Chiorean nods affirmatively as she listens, telling us that as a young woman, she practiced on her mother by giving shots repeatedly with needles they sterilized and reused, since few were available (both mothers and needles) at the time. I think how pleased she would be to know that one of Romania’s orphan children, who found a loving home resulting from the seeds of our initial visit there, is now at University studying to become a doctor. The room is filled with a sense of renewed respect at what we have heard. Someone we may have helped fulfill a dream over twenty years ago is sitting across from us, preparing to help us with our dream today. And so we listen to the game plan.
Wednesday. Our schedule for the day. Chemo education at 10 o’clock on F2. First infusion at 11 o’clock on F5.
Our son, Stephen, joins us today at SCCA, listening as the nurse fills us in on what is about to happen. A long litany of common, less common, and finally rare side effects. She writes some prescriptions, designed to ameliorate the side effects of what we are about to do.
After listening to all the possibilities, I am eager to have these medicines in hand. That we have agreed to Dixie undergoing this treatment, willingly subjecting herself to these destructive chemicals, causes unspoken hesitation on my part, second thoughts. Doubt? Fear? For me at the very least, anxiety. What must Dixie be thinking? I don’t ask. Right when the battle reaches a new level of intensity is not the time to show apprehension or misgiving. That boat has already sailed. Instead, I hurry off to the pharmacy on F5 and place the orders. Your rod and your staff, Lord? I could use some reassurance right now.
At 11:15, we step through double doors and enter that darkest valley. This time the valley morphs into a room at the end of one of two halls, lined with lookalike rooms on either side. As we walk, I’m thinking it takes a lot of people to require this kind of facility. Cancer is big business! At 11:30, the nurse inserts a saline drip line into Dixie’s right forearm and steps out of the room. We are alone with our thoughts now, offering up silent prayers to God, who responds with equally silent answers.
In a few minutes the nurse reappears, dons an apron and slips on extra strength gloves. Stephen asks about the gloves. She explains that she and her coworkers deal so much with chemotherapy drugs, it is important to their own wellbeing to keep it away from inadvertently touching their clothes or skin. This answer is not comforting to me. I watch her remove the saline and attach the bag of Gemcitabine to the line in Dixie’s forearm.
Another nurse comes in. One spells out Dixie’s name and reads a series of chemo identity numbers that is confirmed by the other. He leaves with a parting, “Nice to meet you.”
Seconds later the infusion is under way, and the battle against Enemy Cancer has been re-engaged! Thirty minutes? An hour? It doesn’t take long to change one’s world.
Thursday and Friday. Our children are in motion for two days while I am in Los Angeles helping plan for a CASA conference. I have let it be known to the board that my days as leader of this ministry are rapidly coming to a close. Stephen spends his last day with Mom before returnin
g to Hong Kong. Michele takes Mom for a pedicure. The doctors say this is important to do before chemo begins in earnest, improving appearance, stimulating blood flow to the feet and legs, relaxation, and adding euphoric benefits that help focus, memory, mood and quality of life. Who knew? It actually sounds pretty good.
On Friday, Michele takes Mom “mercy shopping.” At her new normal, 20 pounds lighter than when she began this part of her sacred journey, Dixie has nothing she can wear that doesn’t hang or fall off altogether. Something new is not just an Easter frock, but a real life necessity.
Saturday. Wheels on the ground. A text to Dixie, “Hummer landed.” When I arrive at home, I am met at the door by a beautiful woman with an infectious smile and killer eyes, dressed in a recently purchased blouse with pants that actually fit. Looking good. Actually, better than good. She looks like a young woman I met in Tulsa almost sixty years ago and she still knocks me out, just like she did then! It’s good to be back home.
Sunday. It’s a windy, sunny Sunday morning. I get up early to take Mark and Michele to the airport. They are flying to Hawaii to spend a few R&R days on Oahu with the wife of an Army helicopter pilot who is stationed there. The young mother is someone Michele served as a mentor during her high school days and the relationship with this young couple continues. Though quite different in their styles, both our adult children do one-to-one sharing of life well with others, as do their spouses. I guess the acorns did not fall as far from the tree as we had sometimes thought.
Dixie and I spend the rest of Sunday absorbing the quiet.
Just the two of us.
13
Yielding
If you cannot “cherish” what it is the Lord is doing in your life, at least do not “waste” what he is doing in your life. Lay down the self-pity, and with all the strength and grace that he allows you, yield to his work. ~ from the Aidan, bishop of Lindisfarne, series of daily readings