Brent Ryan

Every once in a while, I post a super mushy blog about how wonderful my husband is. Then we usually end up engaged in some intense fellowship over something petty and we won't even remember what started it. 

This is one of those once-in-a-whiles. He is reffing football right now, so the fellowship will wait until later.

Today is a day I love to celebrate. And it, indeed, is worthy of celebration. On this day in 19-somethingseven, the world was graced by the birth of Brent Ryan Kleppen. Today is his birthday. A day I cherish. A day worthy of noting.

Brent is a good guy. I'm not just saying that because I'm his wife. I'm saying it because it's true. We've been together for over 12 years now. But you've probably already read about that.  Sometimes he makes poor choices. Sometimes he doesn't think. Sometimes our intense fellowship is solely his fault. A lot of sometimes. But all of the time, even when he's a turd, he's a good guy.

I could tell you about the time we were dating and I had strep throat (which seemed like it was every other week) and it was Valentine's Day. I couldn't go out to dinner, so he brought me Chinese food and a teddy bear and sat with me while I was miserable. In my parents' house. I was miserable because of the strep throat, not because I was in my parents' house. Well.... no, okay, strep throat. (hee hee)  I could tell you about the time we weren't going to see each other for 17 days right around Easter, and I got a basket with little plastic eggs in it. I was supposed to open one a day. There were 17 eggs. Each one had a little candy wrapped in a sweet quote. I could tell you about the innumerable times I've been sick, and he has taken far better care of me than I've ever taken of him. I could tell you how he has held me and let me cry, offering the best hugs big strong arms can muster. I could tell you how he has led some of the most powerful, spirit-filled prayers I have ever heard. I could tell you how I turn to goo when he sings. I could tell you how he is one of the hardest-working people I've ever met. I could tell you how much I admire him wanting to do things right. I could tell you how cute he is when he talks in his sleep. Not so much when he snores, though. I could tell you of the many times he's made me laugh until my sides hurt. And you can tell by watching him with Haley for five minutes, that he is an amazing, adoring, wonderful father. I could tell you about the things no husband, and no father, ever wants to have to face. And how Brent navigated those waters with poise, wisdom, and strength most men in his shoes would long for. I'm proud of the man he is. I'm proud of you, Brent.

I used to throw him a party every year. And every year he told me how much he'd rather have a quiet, no frills celebration. And every year I thought he was just being modest. Until I realized he is not the same socialite I am. So we have modest celebrations. Because it's what he likes. And when I do throw him parties, he goes along with it. Because he also likes me. And because...well...he's a good guy.

So Brent - in the most modest way I can muster - Happy Birthday, Babe! This is my favorite day - because without it, I'd be without you. And nobody wants that. 

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Prev: Laughter is the Best Medicine

Laughter is the Best Medicine

I love to laugh. I always have. There's something freeing about a throw-your-head-back-belly-laugh you just can't create in other activities. Then we lost Harlynn. I wasn't sure if I would ever be able to laugh again.

Those first few weeks were intense. Intense. Everything made me cry. All I could do was cry. I didn't want to talk to anybody, I didn't want to do anything. Especially laugh.

It was during the days that followed and family surrounded us. My sister had told me a long time before about a video she took of my nephew, around 20 months at the time, was singing along to Alicia Keys' "Fire" song. Now that we were together, I asked to see the video.  I watched, and I laughed. Hard. I really laughed. It came as naturally as the tears had in the days and minutes leading up to that moment. And it felt good.

Laughter didn't come easily in those days following saying goodbye to Harlynn. Sometimes I wondered, even though I laughed so hard at watching the video of my nephew, if I would ever be able to laugh like I used to. If I would ever be able to find the humor in every day situations and circumstances.

A couple of months ago, I was asked to take part in planning and organizing the women's ministry fall kick-off event at our church. I am not at all a serving body. When I have people over to the house, I can't stand it to have people helping me in the kitchen. I know how I need it done and I just want to do it. In that same vein, I will rarely ask someone if they need help in their kitchen. I expect if they do, they'll tell me what to do, and I'll gladly do it.  But I won't ask and feel like I'm in the way. I know it's weird, but it's how I'm wired. Anyway, this characteristic follows me in every aspect of service. So when I was asked to help, I agreed, but not before confessing this isn't my gift. I do what I'm told, and I do it well, but I don't jump at the chance to stack chairs or set tables. Thankfully, God loves me anyway, and so do the women in charge of women's ministry.  

In one of the planning meetings, the topic of who would be emcee came up. I caught a knot in my throat. I was the emcee last year, and had a blast. It was my "thing". I loved it. But this year....this year was different. I was different. Sherri, who I believe has come to know me pretty well, spoke the very words that were caught in my throat. "I know that sometimes, after experiencing a tragedy like you have, being up in front of people can bring up some .... emotions."  I nodded. That's exactly where I was. I agreed. Yet as I agreed with her, I felt this nudge. This little, inner nudge, that gave me pause.  "But maybe," I began, "it would help me."  Did I just say that? Did I just basically say being in front of a room of 150+ women, trying to keep the program light and flowing, would help me? Am I insane?  The evening's verdict was I would pray about it, and let them know at the next meeting.  I went home and told Brent. His response was, "And you'll do it, because you love it."

"No, Brent, this is different. I'm going to pray about this. I don't want to say I'll do it if I'm not supposed to do it."

He looked at me, slightly bewildered, and said, "Well....good, then. But I hope you do it."

It was two weeks. Two weeks of me coming up with more than every excuse why I should not emcee. Why I shouldn't stand before a room of women, some of whom knew what my journey had been. Last year when I was emcee, I was seven weeks pregnant. With Harlynn. What if that's all I could remember; how I was trying not to throw up on stage and give away my "secret" of being with child? And now I was without her. Would I crack under the sentimental flood of memories? If I talked myself out of it once, I talked myself out of it 1,000 times. And each time I did, I felt that same nudge. That same inward flicker. And I felt a peace, a tangible feeling, come over me. I was supposed to do this. I was supposed to emcee.

For someone who isn't a do-er, for someone who doesn't get her kicks from setting up or providing a food spread, the emcee role is about perfect. I show up, I talk, I leave. Or so I thought.

So, one week ago, I showed up at the church. I walked in. We prayed for the event. We prayed for the participants, for the audience, for the evening as a whole. Dinner was served. Then, it was time. I stepped up in front of everyone, seeing a room full of women, staring at me - waiting for the evening to get underway. And I have no idea what came over me. I have no idea what happened. I don't remember 60% of the things I said - but I, rumor has it, nailed it. I made women giggle, I made women belly-laugh, and I'm pretty sure some even peed a little.  I was on. I was on. For the first time in almost six months' time, I was the one making others laugh. And I was having a blast. I was enjoying it. I prayed prayers from the very depth of my own soul. They were prayers I needed to pray for myself. I worshipped in a no-holds-barred fashion that I haven't been able to find myself capable of for a long while. And I felt God moving in that building. I felt His power. I felt it.

Afterwards I had women telling me how much they enjoyed my being up there. How much fun I had made their evening. One even asked me if I was a comedian by trade. (I am wondering if these ladies need to get out more.)  I know I'm not that funny, so I am convinced the Spirit lowered their expectations a little bit and gave them the giggles. I'm going with that.

I came home and I told Brent how much I needed that. How much I got out of being the emcee. How much I needed to take part in that way. The fact that others enjoyed it was just a bonus. I'm not convinced God led me to emcee for the sake of others so much as I was led to do it for my own renewal. Brent told me, "I'm so glad you went, so you could know you still have this spark. You're still this Val."

And I see how very important laughter is. Yes I am still wracked with grief. Yes I am still fragile. Yes I can still cry with no warning. And I do. But I can laugh. And if Harlynn ever gets a window from heaven, she'll have the chance to see her mommy throwing her head back, cackling like a crazy person, and she'll see, "That's my mama. She seems fun." 

Prev: Family Tree

Family Tree

I drove down the long pathway to the infant's section in the cemetery. I parked and took those all-too-familiar steps to Harlynn's spot. I cleared some leaves from her marker, adjusted her little pinwheels, and I sat to spend time with her. 

I had a lot to tell her. As I fought off the mosquitoes and bees, determined not to let them influence my time visiting Harlynn, I stopped to glance around. The leaves are turning on the trees. They're falling to the ground. The grass is preparing itself for winter and cold. The deer were all around, grazing on what's left of the fresh morsels. Everything in the cemetery will be bare in a few months. Everything will be dry, brittle, and void of vibrancy.

But come spring....they'll all come back to life. Grass will green. Trees will sprout leaves. Flowers will bloom. Life will return.  Yet no one resting underground there will. 

It isn't fair. I don't suppose we've ever believed that life would be. But of all the unfair things....this.... this just isn't fair. 

I turned back to Harlynn's spot, tears in my eyes. Oh I wish love was enough to keep her. How I wish any amount of tears could bring her back. I begged her, as I do every visit, to come and see me - somehow, some way, show me who and how she is. Let me hear her voice. Let me see her adorable chin. Her bright eyes. I asked her a few favors. Told her a few secrets. Whispered a prayer.

As I walked back to the car, and startled the deer nearby, I saw a doe with two fawns. She wouldn't take her eyes off me as her babes grazed nearby. "I won't hurt them," I promised. "I envy you a little." She stood a little straighter, glanced at her fawn who had laid down behind her, then bowed her head a little in my direction. She was a proud, protective mama. We both were.

I don't know what the future has in store for us. Wherever this road takes us, and whatever lies ahead, however, will not be untouched by, or ignorant of Harlynn's influence. She is still a branch on our family tree. She will bear fruit for always.

Next: Laughter is the Best Medicine
Prev: As The Seasons