Karen
I currently have four Karens in my life. This post is for one of them.
Did I ever tell you that my first real bosom-buddy was a Karen? She and I became fast friends in highschool through the church we both attended. Her dad was our choir director and has recently offered my Susan his entire printed repertoire if we can only get to Indiana to fetch it. Karen died while I was in college. It was my awakening to the holy sovereignty of God. She had married Bob from Canada whom she had met in Bible college. They hoped to be missionaries to the Indians of Alberta (?). They had done a lot of driving in their old car across mountainous terrain and at some point, unbeknownst to them, the exhaust pipe had gotten pointed into the trunk of the car. Karen, with child, had laid her head in Bob's lap as he drove. After he began feeling ill, he found he couldn't wake her and stopped at a clinic where they discovered she had died of monoxide poisoning.
The day I learned of it was a delicious summer Lord's Day. We had gotten home from church and there was company downstairs. I received a call from another girl from church who thought I would want to know. I flung myself across my mother's bed and cried. Maybe I ran into our long, sunny backyard, or maybe I just sat on Mom's bed and looked out the window at it, but it figures into my memory of recognizing that this was no freak accident; that it was too tragic to have been just an accident; that God Himself must have wanted the thing to happen. And right then He gave me grace to submit to His perfect will.
I painted her portrait the next year at school. It was my first oil portrait. It was the work that taught me that I had a special gift for the face of man, imago Dei. I gave it to her parents. Bob married her cousin and they went on to serve the Canadian Indians and have children.
Making breakfast a few minutes ago and trying to think out the day, I thought of Karen's comment yesterday that I'm not posting often. That line of thinking made me realize how many Karens I know right now. I was doing my "triage" at the kitchen sink, washing up (my dishwasher has been unrepaired for three weeks now): devotions, painting (I really want to lay in the frame of the painting before anything else this morning, while the light is good and the kids are off practicing tennis), accounting, errands, getting the house ready for Bible study tonight. (And where will I put the wet painting?!) Each of those things seems too large to do right now, which is why I need to go have devotions. But this is the reason I don't write so often. I think of lots of stuff I might write about, but there is always something else that needs doing. And long ago I realized that what things I want to write about are not necessarily more important than all the daily demands. And sometimes some of the daily demands are not necessarily more important than writing. So here I am, and here I go.
Have a good day.
Did I ever tell you that my first real bosom-buddy was a Karen? She and I became fast friends in highschool through the church we both attended. Her dad was our choir director and has recently offered my Susan his entire printed repertoire if we can only get to Indiana to fetch it. Karen died while I was in college. It was my awakening to the holy sovereignty of God. She had married Bob from Canada whom she had met in Bible college. They hoped to be missionaries to the Indians of Alberta (?). They had done a lot of driving in their old car across mountainous terrain and at some point, unbeknownst to them, the exhaust pipe had gotten pointed into the trunk of the car. Karen, with child, had laid her head in Bob's lap as he drove. After he began feeling ill, he found he couldn't wake her and stopped at a clinic where they discovered she had died of monoxide poisoning.
The day I learned of it was a delicious summer Lord's Day. We had gotten home from church and there was company downstairs. I received a call from another girl from church who thought I would want to know. I flung myself across my mother's bed and cried. Maybe I ran into our long, sunny backyard, or maybe I just sat on Mom's bed and looked out the window at it, but it figures into my memory of recognizing that this was no freak accident; that it was too tragic to have been just an accident; that God Himself must have wanted the thing to happen. And right then He gave me grace to submit to His perfect will.
I painted her portrait the next year at school. It was my first oil portrait. It was the work that taught me that I had a special gift for the face of man, imago Dei. I gave it to her parents. Bob married her cousin and they went on to serve the Canadian Indians and have children.
Making breakfast a few minutes ago and trying to think out the day, I thought of Karen's comment yesterday that I'm not posting often. That line of thinking made me realize how many Karens I know right now. I was doing my "triage" at the kitchen sink, washing up (my dishwasher has been unrepaired for three weeks now): devotions, painting (I really want to lay in the frame of the painting before anything else this morning, while the light is good and the kids are off practicing tennis), accounting, errands, getting the house ready for Bible study tonight. (And where will I put the wet painting?!) Each of those things seems too large to do right now, which is why I need to go have devotions. But this is the reason I don't write so often. I think of lots of stuff I might write about, but there is always something else that needs doing. And long ago I realized that what things I want to write about are not necessarily more important than all the daily demands. And sometimes some of the daily demands are not necessarily more important than writing. So here I am, and here I go.
Have a good day.
posted by Compleat Mom at 8:31 AM
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