About my Dad

It's been awhile since I've sat still long enough to write.

Truth be told, I just don't have the gumption to write about the next logical piece.  I've graduated and I need to write about that.  However, the Week-End Class schedule at St. Kate's keeps us as students for a bit after the ceremony.  I'm not really "done" until June 25, 2011.  I am relishing each moment.  Stretching out the experience, the friendships, the connections, the safety of being a student for as long as I can.

I thought I would write about my Grandpa today.  It's Father's Day and I haven't really written publicly about him.  You ought to know him.  He was a wonderful, wonderful man.  And I don't just say that because he spoiled me, took me everywhere, taught me to read, chased butterflies for me, squished bugs on my behalf and loved me absolutely.

Others will tell you the same about him.  He was amazingly compassionate.

But I find myself not able to write about him, yet, either.  I hold the treasure of his memory closely, jealously against the day the words won't stay.

Why am I bothering you, then?  Well, I thought I ought to touch your life in some small way lest you leave me for another blogger.  I do want to keep your attention.  I just am not publicly writing now.  The words are all together full these days and can't just be randomly thrown into the universe.  They require protection, still.  I will share them when they are grown words.  I promise.

But not today.  Today I am re-posting a couple of prior pieces.  They are also both in the Book of Pages About Crossing Bridges.  If you like them, you might like the Book.  Honestly.  People do.  Which always surprises me some.

In any event, here are links to the pieces written for and about my Dad:  Daddy's Hands and Before I Know It.

I hope you enjoy them.  Happy Father's Day to all the dads and all the grandpas and all the men who love like dads. 


Daddy's Hands   Daddy's Hands

Before I Know It    Before I Know It


The Book of Pages About Crossing Bridges can be purchased through the EStore at:  krisanewman.webs.com.  If you would like a signed copy, please e-mail me at newkris@yahoo.com with your contact information. 


If you like this blog, I think you will like the book.  


Blessings galore!  Kris

One Week Before the Beginning

Today is a writing day.

Sometimes I can hardly sleep for the words push and play and demand my expression.  Today is one of those days.

I’m going to graduate from college next week. I really am.  I have the gown, the tassel , the yellow chord, the guest tickets.  It’s real.

I remember clearly two events leading to this day.

First, my daughter-in-law’s voice saying, “John says it’s his fault that you didn’t go to college.”  Fault?  Interesting choice of words. 

It’s true I didn’t go at 18 because I had to take care of us.   In those days, when you aged out of foster care you simply aged out.  It was up to your parents or foster parents to send you to college and mine couldn’t. The concept of After Care for foster kids was many years away when I turned 18.

Besides, I was pregnant.  I had made my life choices and I chose to give life.  I never, ever regretted that decision. But it complicated things for me.  Rent and food and childcare stood between me and course catalogs.

College for me was an impractical dream lived by other people.

Time and life flew by.  We made do and God provided in amazing ways.

Then came the day I sat in my son’s kitchen and listened to his wife tell me how responsible he felt that I hadn’t done what I always wanted to do.

“I’m not dead yet.”  Was my answer and the gauntlet was thrown.

I was 39 years old.  I was a legal secretary and worked part-time at Milwaukee Area Technical College.   I knew adults went back to school all the time.  I could easily join their ranks.  Like my father before me, I looked at the peers which might be mine and I feared failing before them.

Kind people told me I was capable, but what if I wasn’t?  What if I failed?  What if I embarrassed my Grandma’s memory by finishing short? 

Fear of failure was the hardest obstacle.

I had certain, particular friends at that time who unknowingly encouraged me. 

A simple phrase spoken by someone whose opinion I held highly, “I keep forgetting you don’t have a degree already.  You know so much about literature.” 

And another, “You should work on getting published.  You’re good enough.”

“You would blow them out of the water!”

Block by block, word by word, their words built me up until I could see over the fear and I started cautiously down the road.

The second memory, the one which pushed me above the fear, makes me smile to this day.  I was having lunch with my boss on a beautiful fall day.  I told him I was going to start taking classes.  I needed him to know I didn’t plan to stay where I was, I wanted to be more than a secretary at some point in my life.

He looked farther beyond than I was dreaming.  “Well, I know a lot of people who went to law school after having a full career somewhere else.  You would make a great lawyer.  I think you can do this.”

 “One level at a time,” I laughed, “I don’t want to be a lawyer anyway. “  But his confidence in my ability so far beyond my dream pushed me over the fear of failure.  If he thought I could finish grad school, then surely I could graduate from undergrad!

So many seasons have come and gone in the last six years. 

Mavrik was only a few months old when I started this journey, and now he is graduating from kindergarten – a boy who can read and run and loves the world unabashedly.  Anna, Arthur and Eli have been added to our clan - tangible reminders of God’s plans larger than our own.

Johnathon, my first son, and his wife have matured into leaders and parents who give more than they take from the world around them.

Thi, the younger, graduated from high school, expanded music and ministry learning with his college, and is now a youth pastor sharing grace with those set in his path.

I have moved from city to small town traveling between married and divorced, legal assistant to educator and back again, skirting the line of plenty and poverty.  Names have been added and deleted from the list of those called “family” through birth and death and weaving of life’s story.

The blog, the book, the acceptance of my words and voice have given me a new identity.

I am not the same woman who sat in my son’s kitchen tantalized by the unlived dream. I am a writer.  My expansive life experiences have given me something to share with those who come behind me. I am a stronger, more compassionate, quieter version of the woman who started this journey.

Next week I will walk across the stage with my robe and tassel and chord ready to begin the rest of the story.

Blogs and More Blogs

This blog is about a blog.  Well, actually it's about a blog about this blogger.

Some of you may know I have written many times in the past for an e-zine called ninetyandnine.com.  Based out of St. Louis, MO, 90&9 started as a connection point for Christians to share information and creativity with other like minded Christians.  There were short stories, reviews of various media, devotions, poems and all sorts of other "stuff."

I have written for them quite a bit over the years.  The Tolstoy review is there and so is the Mitch Albom book reviews and, of course, the review of Hope's Boy.  Some interviews, too, with some friends enjoying their 15 minutes of fame.

And now my own 15 minutes is ticking away.

Lee Ann Alexander, a writer and literary expert in her own right, writes about me.  I am very honored.

And since you are my readers, I share the link with you.

Toast to the good days!

It's a new season.  I do declare, winter has come to an end!

NinetyandNine Interview with Lee Ann Alexander is found here: http://www.ninetyandnineword.blogspot.com/

Only Just Begun

Music and other sounds play behind the 48 hours I spent in St. Louis last week-end. Jets’ chatter, voices clattering and laughter tinkling like sunshine.

And music.

A worker hums along one hallway while another sings softly as they push their brooms and dust rags. Their harmony hastening the timeclock, smoothing the drudgery.

A smiling voice greets me at the end of the journey’s first leg, “I’m here! In the white car. I see you!”

Accommodating a tired traveler, refreshing with genuineness. Whisked to the wedding where pictures were prominently promenading causing guests to stroll down memory lane. Snatches of time full of love and promise, white lace and kisses for luck. A reminder that dancing in the mine fields can end in strength. Faith, it appears, is a major foundational component to win this dance.

The ceremony begins with a tradition continued. Family memories caried on the straings of a song. A reminder that though some have gone before, some yet remain. True, pure voices touch my soul.

I pondered the men standing before me – the groom and groomsmen – I know them all, well.

I watched most of them grow from small to tall, learning to stretch their wings, choosing paths. “I’m going to college. “ “I want to learn this language, to use it to affect the world.” “I plan to let God use my music.”

The great debut moments: Junior Camp Band, First Time Song Leaders, bow ties.

And laughter.

So very, very much laughter. All the tears feel less lonely shared with those whose laughter keeps us all from falling apart.

Well, laughter and prayer. How many hours have these men joined in prayer as a bastion protecting one another, building up walls of faith to support, surround, cover one another?  The unleared mayhap cannot discern it, but I know some of the difficult days these men have seen. I remember the day Saul’s anger turned. The day Absalom’s jealousy overtook his loyalty. Events that cut to the quick and lay bare foundations. Comfort and peace replaced by deep sadness. I saw the wind blow fiercely pushing the chaff away from the stalk.

Yet, together, these men stand, strong.

I am so proud to know them.

As this day continued to tell its story, I learned I was not in St. Louis for only a wedding, as incredible as that was to me. I found myself immersed in conversations, particular, with two of the women of these men. The first wives, the examples. Those allowed into the circle, those who stand behind and with them. As one of the mothers, it is fitting I would share time with the wives on this day when another was added to their ranks. It’s what women do.

The whirlwind stopped as we chatted. We talked first of these men. Sharing experiences, stories, common bonds and then crossed the chasm to ourselves. Our dreams. Our ideas. Our plans. Our hearts opening before the other over a piece of cake and snacks of strawberries and homemade whip cream. Like hummus on chips, we dipped into one another’s lives.

The songs of the workers, the music traditions at the ceremony, and the musical conversation wasn’t all the music of this week-end, however. After all was said and done and everyone was where they should be next, a gathering spontaneously grew in the hotel lobby. Tables and chairs moved and arranged for a haphazard stage.

Have you ever been to a symphony? If you’re early enough, you hear them tuning their instruments. It sounds disjointed, a cacophony of sound confusedly babbling without purpose. Then, suddenly, a tap-tap-tap as the conductor draws their attention and smoothes the rough edges and united music fills the air.

I saw that in the lobby that night.

Youngest cousin first on the violin. Proudly smiling, deeply bowing, sharing his beginning talent with the world. A showman through and through looking for audience approval.

He gave the stage to his older brother, then. Shyly, uncertain his voice and guitar awkward at first until he forgot we were there and began to play for an audience of One. Clean sound from a beautiful soul resonated with innocence. Amazing grace! How sweet the sound. Sensitivity revealing an artist at the beginning of his life’s canvas.

Older cousins took the floor next. Sharing their more polished, perfected talents. Humble confidence mixed with anointing. The artist traded the stage, but his eyes held raptly to the older player’s hands. Watching every chord, every nuance, recording them with his moving fingers.

I looked around me and considered the richness of this family. Generations of music flowed through their veins. Open faces sharing His grace, the wonder of His blessings.

The day came to a close, but the time wasn’t full. Sunday began with praise music in the cab, friendly laughter exchanged through the airport, a friendship sparked and grateful reflections.

When at last I lay my weary self down I can hear the songs still. The score of this 48 hours will long play in my heart.

Angels Who Adopted Me

Kids are angels, too, but I’m sure you already know that. I have quite the collection of kids who are angels. Many of them are grown now with kids and collections of their own. I never tire of their stories, their smiles, their innate goodness.

The other day someone made the comment that they like their own kids, but they aren’t too keen on adding to the brood like I am. I thought that was funny. I have never made an effort to add to my kid collection.

They just… join my path.

I have two sons. Those are direct gifts from God. They are the foundation of the collection and I’ve always tried to make sure they know they are the most important. Added to them, now, are the grandbabies.

But they weren’t the first. As the oldest of the “cousins” in my foster family, I was the natural babysitter. I read the stories to keep the kids quiet. Took the kids to the park. Played with the kids outside. It seemed I always had Ron or Angie or Vonnie somewhere close behind me all through the growing up years. And Kendra, too. She was the first official paid babysitting job I had.

I liked the idea that someone needed me and trusted me and laughed with me. Besides, I could tell them what to do and they had to listen to me. I was the oldest, after all.

And they made me laugh. A lot. Silly smiles and cookie kisses. That’s probably where it started. This kid collection thing. We read The Velveteen Rabbit endlessly and giggled at The Very Scary Witch no matter how many times we told it.

When Johnathon was born and my peers were having babies of their own, we traded a lot. I’d watch someone’s kids so they would watch mine. But it seemed I had kids more often that I didn’t trade for. Coming over to play, walking to the park with us, talking with me as much as my sons.

Then there were the bus kids. The goal was to bring kids to church so they could learn about Jesus, get a moral compass, a foundation to help them along the way. I understood the parents who wanted their kids to have a little direction while they had a few hours of quiet from the hectic swim that kept their families floating above the poverty line. It was a win-win, except I think I won the most.

I was the “rule maker” in the back of the bus. The one who sat with the kids to keep them from acts of mayhem and rioting. The thugs who came to church to get away from home for a few hours. The miscreants who wanted nothing more than a free breakfast. The chatterboxes who were starved for attention. They surrounded me through the bus ride and left me with pieces of their identity. I prayed they would take some of mine, too.

The angels whose eyes told too many stories and whose rare smiles radiated genuine love – if you watched long enough for the dead eyes to come to life.

My heart is full of them still – those smiles, tears, hugs.

The tough kids who went on to college are stars in my crown, they say. Some have families now. They are heads of households. Wage earners. Teaching their children about Jesus, giving them a moral compass. Using their gifts to bring grace to the world around them.

But what of those whose college years were spent behind prison walls? They are stars to me, too. Fighting for survival in a world they didn’t create, caught in a web they didn’t spin. They tried to make sense of the puzzle, but the pieces didn’t quite fit. I don’t see the gun in their hand or the rage in their heart. I see the little boy with the Mother’s Day card and no one to give it to. I hear the plain speaking voice saying, “but the electric cord? That’s the worst. The metal part sticks in your skin if you don’t have sleeves on.”

I wish I could have protected those angels better.

I feel their tiny hands tentatively stroking my foreign blonde hair, “your hair so soft. How you do that?”

Sometimes when I open my Bible their words fall out, “I made you a card. Do you like it?” Crayola treasures I will keep forever.

Some of them use their experiences now to shape the generation behind them. They are cops, soldiers, teachers, preachers. They control the world around them, teach Sunday School, sing for their Savior to minister grace to someone else, they go the extra mile to share some good thing.

I am amazed at the way God has taken my feeble words and acts of kindness and magnified them in these angels. I hear them telling others, “You have to keep bridges mended. You never know when that opportunity is lost for good.”

And the collection keeps growing. Wherever I go, it seems, there are children who want to share their lives with me. I love the way they speak, the words they choose, the things they find important. I draw from them hope, they draw from me value.

They adopted me along the way, but I’m the one whose family keeps growing.

“This is my white mama. See the resemblance? “ “This my Grandma. She was my mama’s mama so that make her my Grandma, right?” “Go to Bapka, she will read to you.”

It’s a win-win. Today, I am most grateful for the angels who share my path and fill my heart.

Walk in the Light

I live so close to my church that I walk to church – snow, rain, cold – I walk. I really couldn’t park much closer than I live so there is no point in driving. Mostly, I enjoy it. It gives me a little space to put away home and get my mind ready for church. I love church, by the way, which you already know if you know me at all.


The sky was so intensely blue, the sun so intensely bright and the snow so intensely white that it actually hurt my eyes. I was teared up and struggling to see where to place my feet as I walked. Maybe you have walked in a light as bright, too? Well, this is how my writer’s eyes lived the moment….

My eyes are tired. They are puffy and dark and small and full of unbidden tears. The brightness of the sun makes me look away and down. Instinct tells me it’s too bright! I can’t see before me. I can’t open my eyes. Not only the sun is bright, but the snow reflects that light and throws snowflakes at me formed on the wind. They dart at me like tiny daggers pushing me back.

I want to shield myself from the brilliance, do something to stop the burning. I should have just stayed inside, tucked away, in my dark, quiet, space.

But I need to go to church.

I can’t stay where I am if I’m going to grow. I need to be fed by the community that is church.

I need some iron to brush against me and rough off the edges. I need some gentle voices to fill the empty places. I need to have someone touch me, hug me, tell me they are glad I’m here! I need someone to pull away the aloneness and give me value.

I need to tell someone they make me smile, to give encouragement to someone else, to let them hear me pray, to sing, to share the joy He brings.

I understand the sharpness of the light. I know the scientific implications. My mind is wrapped around it.

I know why I must leave my little apartment behind and get through it.

But recognizing and living are two different things. No one can walk through the light for me. No one can clean the burn – only my tears can clear my vision. No one can keep walking for me. I must see where I need to be and I must do what it takes to get there.

Walking through the brilliance, I see His majesty at a whole new level.

The Life-Light blazed out of the darkness; the darkness couldn't put it out. John 1:5, The Message

Angels Who Taught Me

"Words kill, words give life; they’re either poison or fruit—you choose." (Proverbs 18:21 - The Message)

Sometimes the simplest string of letters can have long lasting impact.

I was reminded recently about a couple of teachers from middle school. Now, you have to realize that middle school was a long, long time ago.

And middle school was its own cataclysmic hotbed of change for me. Not only because of the normal hormones and strangeness that everyone goes through, but my Grandpa - my foster father, one of the centers of my universe - was very ill and passed away when I was in middle school. His illness and passing were some of the most traumatic events of my life.

I was not a very nice kid in middle school. I didn’t know how to deal with the emotions that surfaced at that time. Anger, resentment, jealousy, fear and failure churned in my heart. I think I started to wear black in middle school, but then it wasn’t just because it was easier in my professional world. I wanted to disappear.

I used a lot of drugs and drank a lot in an effort to self-medicate.

I spent a lot of time alone listening to The Doors and wishing I would just fade away.

I read voraciously – sometimes a book a day. All kinds of books, but mostly biographies. I was curious to know how other people lived, the real story behind their fame. I thought, perhaps, I would be famous someday and do something great.

If I could make it through middle school.

Mostly, I didn’t cry. I held those tears in and promised myself I would be tougher, better, stronger than anyone else. I was hard on the outside and made sure everyone knew I was fine. I didn’t need any help or any babying or any attention.

That’s why the teachers who come to mind impress me ever the more. I was a good student, a smart kid, but the surly wall around me was meant to keep them away. If you don’t care for anyone, you can’t lose them, right? That was my philosophy in middle school.

Mr. Campanelli, Mrs. Wendlendt and Mrs. Marks weren’t daunted by my attitude. They saw right through it.

Now, the women I might understand. They were, after all, English teachers and even then English was my easy subject. If anything could get me to discuss coursework, an English lesson could.

But Mr. C? He was a math teacher! I don’t know that anyone ever worked harder to try to help me understand math. He made me want to try to concentrate and follow his rules. More than his teaching, Mr. C. impressed me with his compassion. He is the one teacher who stopped me in the hall the day after the funeral and asked me how I was. He told me if I needed anything to let him know. I can see him there, standing with compassion and sympathy in his eyes. He understood. And he took the risk to reach beyond my anger to tell me so. He didn’t buy the “I’m fine” line.

Mrs. Wendlendt’s classroom was right next to Mr. C. She intrigued me because she was cut from such a completely different cloth from anyone I had ever known. Kind of like Maria von Trapp live and in person. She had been a nun and left to get married and teach. Her hair was short, her clothes were plain, but her face was so amazingly full of expression and life! She loved to tell stories and would read all kinds of things to us.

I don’t remember what the assignment was, but I vividly remember sitting in the back of the classroom with her. In her hand was something I had written with notes along the side in her broad, sweeping penmanship.

“You’re a natural writer, you know,“ She stated the fact as though I, of course, knew this from birth.

“I read a lot so I probably write better.”

“No, that’s not why.” She stretched across my self-deprecation and built a confident bridge, “You have a special talent. You are a writer. I love reading the way you put words together. Someday your words will be read by many people.”

That phrase is etched in my soul and lends itself to my identity.

I think she may have talked to Mrs. Marks, because when I got into her 8th grade English class, she expected me to write. She gave me freedom to expand my writing beyond the assignments and took extra time to read, correct, edit and push me to expound my thoughts. She called me a writer, too.

I had other teachers I will likely write about at another time, but today these are the three angels who come to mind. They believed in me when others looked over me. They reinforced what I learned at home – all people have value, even if they don’t see it in themselves.

I hope a teacher somewhere reads these words today and realizes the ability they have to build, to create, to enforce, to impact the future. I hope whoever reads this today realizes that we are all teachers with the ability to kill or give life to dreams through our words.

You never know who the punk under that black is going to be someday: literary honor student, author.