veritas: one woman’s journey

“You heard Sharon died Friday, right?” The words, said so quickly — the speaker assuming I had already been told — pierced my heart.

A gasp and a scream simultaneously came forth from my lips as I tried to process the information. Oblivious that I was standing in an office, oblivious to those who might hear me, I let the tears overflow.

All I knew is that today, I lost a friend.

–

Sharon, who worked in the co-op office at school, was in her late fifties — a warm, kind woman who was eager to help with any problem. We had developed a friendship over the past year through my interactions with the co-op office.

–

I took the news very hard. I had gone up to Maureen’s office after class to finish some business with her when she told me.

All of a sudden, the brevity of life was right in my face, demanding my attention; the grief — overwhelming. I fled from school and cried all the way home.

–

My heart heavy since I heard, all I can do is go over my last conversation with Sharon, go over the things I kept putting aside. I kept telling her I’d give her my bread recipe — I never did. I kept meaning to bring her a small gift — but I didn’t find the time.

I keep going over our many conversations and smiling at the memories — we’d swap stories about family; share the best places to get health food and discuss cooking tips. We talk about life and loved ones, homeschooling’s ins and outs (her nieces and nephews were homeschooled and she was a big supporter) — we’d laugh.

Sharon was always a bright light in my day. Her smile and welcoming personality were such a blessing. She was the rock of the co-op office at school — steady, sure, calming, confidence-boosting. I’m going to really miss her, my conversations and interactions.

I’m still trying to process that she’s gone. I will never see or talk with her again.

This past week, since I first found out she was sick (I had no idea the gravity), I had been meaning to write her a card — was even thinking of visiting her…and I kept putting it off because I was sick and overwhelmed with school and life. And now — now, I can’t. Those opportunities are lost.

I cannot say goodbye.

The last thing I said to her, right before Christmas break, after having a warm conversation in the hallway together, which I had to cut off because I was rushing to a final exam, was, “I’ll see you after break!”

If only I had known.

–

Don’t ever take a moment for granted; don’t ever assume you have another day to do something; to tell a loved one you love them, to write a card, to go visit someone. Do not allow life to steal your moments. If Sharon had known she had but a few months to live, would she have been working in the co-op office? If you knew you had but a few months to live, would you be living as you are? Are there things you need to say to someone? Is there a letter that needs to be written? A hug that needs to be delivered?

Time is fleeting; we never know when our interactions with someone might be our last.

Don’t waste the gift of life God has given you. Don’t waste an opportunity to tell someone you love them. You might never have another chance.

- Christen Patterson
February 2005

“I need a man!” I shouted. I was greeted with silence, wide eyes, and smirking from my friends who had gathered to help me move from my town home of two years to a new apartment. I made that exclamation numerous times throughout the day, too tired to realize the double meaning I was conveying to everyone around me; besides, I didn’t think I needed a qualifier within the context of it being moving day – heavy furniture needed to be moved and I certainly wasn’t about to attempt it on my own when I had strong male friends around.

I have yet to live down my empathic statements.

My recent move went exceptionally well, and as I was thanking God for His provision, I realized that sometimes miracles come in the every-day form.

Miracles are when friends show up late the night before moving day to help you pack your bedroom and paint your new apartment, bringing dinner with them; miracles are somehow getting your house packed the morning of your move, and not only getting everything packed but also getting everything moved in record-time. Miracles are getting your Internet-connection hooked up the night you need it when you have a deadline to make. Miracles are having friends unpack your boxes on the other end, setting up your kitchen so that when you stumble into it later that night, exhausted after a long day, you can actually find a glass to help satiate your thirst. Miracles are watching three burly men get an upright piano into your second-story apartment, undamaged. Miracles are when you stumble into your bathroom after everyone has left for the day and discover hot water for a shower when you were told that because of a mix-up, you’d only have cold water for a few days. Miracles are the love you experience from those around you who support you, figuratively and sometimes literally, when you are too tired to do it on your own. Miracles are the grace God gives you when you part ways with your closest friend and no longer have her in the room next to yours. Miracles are watching God bring your new roommate into your life in a way that leaves no room to wonder if He’s in control. Miracles are watching people come together to help and support each other.

Miracles are the very breaths we take, the health we have, the ability to reflect, and so as I look around my new apartment, I am reminded that we have daily reasons to thank God for His many blessings and the miracles He bestows upon us.

And, when it comes to upright pianos being moved to second-story apartments, yes, sometimes you do need a man.

-Christen Patterson
May 29, 2007

You get up in the morning, throw on a pot of coffee, sit down to breakfast, jump in the shower, and drive to work or class and you wonder what it all really means; you wonder if this is the life you really want to be living; you wonder how you ended up in the day to day, mundane routine that you vowed you’d never fall into.

Was it the enticing security of the paycheck? Was it the praise from others? Was it the hope of a great job upon graduation? Was it because you were too fearful to do anything else? Was it parents’ or significant others’ expectations for who you should be?

Do you even really know your self? Do you know what you want? Do you know who you want to be? Or are you drifting along, discontent but not sure how to change anything? Numbing yourself to the pain or frustration with friends, relationships, parties, busy schedules, workout routines, hobbies, this and that. You lead a full life. But you find it all very empty.

You tell yourself you’ll figure it out tomorrow.

And one week blurs into another. You live for the weekends, but they pass too swiftly.

You have dreams but you shelve them; you have hopes but you don’t dare hope them; you have desires but you curtail them. And before you know it, you settle. And you convince yourself you’re living a fulfilling life.

But the silence doesn’t deceive. In the silence, your heart and mind scream discontent at you; so you seek to drone out the silence with noise and activity, and you exhaust yourself.

Until you hit a brick wall: maybe your job ends, maybe a relationship fails, maybe what you sought turned out to be empty, and you wonder what it is you are searching for. You find yourself always waiting for the next “thing” in life. Somehow, unconsciously, you’re hoping that will provide the fulfillment and peace your soul is searching for.

In the meantime, your alarm clock goes off and you roll over and hit the ”snooze” button.

You’ll figure it all out tomorrow.

Christen Patterson
February 2007

I was having dinner with Katie and Jamie last week (good times!) and Jamie made a statement that non-Christians don’t hate Christians because they are hypocrites; rather they hate Christians because they pretend that they aren’t.

Isn’t that the unfortunate truth too often?

Gritty; hardened; a diamond in the rough — Alan Fisk, towering at 6’3”, is a self-professed “dinosaur” of the journalism world. Bushy eyebrows; hints of a goatee; graying, tousled hair; and an unassuming manner of dress (he wears jeans and a dress shirt, opened at the neck most days) – marks of a seasoned journalist. His extensive resume (the list covers over thirty different publications) is impressive, including positions at the New York Times and the Detroit News. Burned out by the fast-paced demands of the journalism world, Fisk decided to retire four years ago and turned to teaching, freelancing on the side. I first met Fisk in a feature writing class at UM-Dearborn.

After the first initial classes, I was determined not to like Fisk; his distaste for tardiness, brusque mannerisms, and his pervading no-nonsense attitude rubbed me the wrong way. Even sitting informally atop a desk, legs swinging, Fisk’s presence was a force to be reckoned with: in short, he intimidated me. I was further convinced his almost lackadaisical manner of teaching had nothing to offer me.

He proved me wrong.

Fisk expects from his students their very best and is not afraid to tell it like it is. He pushes his students to better their writing and critical thinking abilities, and he does so in an unconventional way. His wisdom and vast experience in the journalism field offer what other professors cannot: real-world know-how. That expertise, however, comes with a price. Fisk’s voice is marked with weariness and suggests a cynical worldview that is revealed through classroom discussion of world events. But he’s not as grumpy as he sometimes projects, and his honesty and humility are endearing. He’s a father with an estranged, adult daughter; a man with disappointments and hopes, successes and failures; a liberal-leaning, old-school journalist — in other words, an average-Joe who possesses an above-average ability to write and teach.

Fisk’s teaching ability is amazing; perhaps it stems from the fact that he wasn’t shaped to be a “teacher.” Perhaps it’s just innate, but one isn’t aware that Fisk is teaching. In fact, it almost seems too easy, his classes. But you find yourself walking away from his classroom with your writing skills vastly improved, and you don’t know quite how he did it.

Fisk’s editing is one of his best tools; his real-life work experience and knowledge-base offers what other journalism professors cannot offer, and time flies in his classroom. You find yourself continually wishing class lasted longer.

By the middle of that first semester, Fisk’s ability to teach and his expertise demanded my respect; by the end of that semester, he had won my affection. However crusty Fisk may appear upon first meeting, one discovers that not only does he reign supreme as one of the best teachers of the written word, but he also is really a giant teddy-bear with a heart of gold.

Sitting next to a black potbelly stove, on a wooden folding chair with his arms folded across his stomach, his silver hair tied back and a warm smile peeking through his full beard, Richard Peterson (named changed), 52, reminds one of Gandolf of “Lord of the Rings” fame.

The setting is a Friday-night home Bible study; the time is affectionately known as “post-Bible study discussion.” Surrounded by a handful of high school and college students and their parents, Peterson is clearly at home as he discusses philosophy, science, politics and theology with his eager audience. Delving into the two subjects we’re instructed from babes never to discuss, Peterson doesn’t seem to mind the hot debates that are stirred, nor do the young people who are active participants and look upon him as not only mentor but also as friend.

Into the crazy fray of laughter and heated argumentation, one cannot help but notice the familial love in the group; it may seem like a strange mixture and setting for students to spend their Friday nights, but it’s become a cornerstone of the week for many of the students.

Peterson’s ability to connect with the younger generation and engage them to think deeply about their world and to teach about theology, philosophy, history and science is a gift, and part of the attraction is Peterson’s realness about his emotions and about the hardships of life. He may be the Bible study teacher, but he doesn’t sugarcoat reality, and the kids know they can trust him.

This welcoming attitude that Peterson exudes, a willingness to connect with others, is a stark contrast to his personality for many years after experiencing the worst moment of his life as a young child.

As one listens to his story, one is captivated by the simplicity with which he expresses the deep pain that altered his life in one swift moment.

“During the spring of my twelfth year, my father left his wife and children to move to the state of Florida and be part of another family,” begins Peterson. “The woman he was running off with was leaving her husband; her children were going to Florida with them, and they were also taking the 2-year-old child they had parented together while still married to their first spouses. I had known that my parents were in bad shape since I was the oldest child and my mother’s confidant.”

Peterson continued to relate the events of that soul-wrenching day. “The last day that I saw my dad for many years was a pleasant enough day; the sun was shining, I was neither hungry nor cold. In the living room of my small childhood home stood my father, mother, siblings, and self, and my dad was telling us that he was going away. The atmosphere in that room was not pleasant; the sun was setting and the cold was descending upon my heart. Many were crying; I was not. In that moment, something changed in me. I did not cry or laugh for many years. It was as if the light was going out and a part of me was freezing…and then he was gone, no letters, no calls, no visits.”

As the eldest boy, Peterson became the man of the house – with seven younger siblings, the burden of responsibility he tried to shoulder was crushing but not destroying. However, that experience and resulting consequences vastly changed him. As he stated, it was “many years later I learned to cry again. I was at a movie theater seeing a trailer for a coming movie. Johnny Cash was singing and Jesus the Son of God, the Messiah, was hanging on a cross, and I began to cry.”

The depth with which Peterson discusses this episode and the resulting wake that spread across the years of his life, affecting his disposition and relationships, strikes a haunting chord; this is a man who has experienced much pain and sorrow in his life. And yet, as evidenced by the content of the meetings and late-night conversations following at the weekly Bible studies that Peterson has led for the last five years, he has found peace with his father’s abandonment.

Forgiving him as an adult, the scars are still etched deeply; you can see it in Peterson’s eyes, and yet, there is now a gentleness and a peace that emanates from him as he discusses his father. Peterson’s chosen to forgive him, regardless of his father not deserving his forgiveness, and the love that is the agent that allows him to is the love and beauty that he pours into the students who come to learn from the wisdom he possesses.

(written winter 2005)