can you hear me now?

“I’m sorry, what did you say? I didn’t hear you.” As soon as those words cross my lips, I see the other person’s reaction. I wince as their eyes roll & a deep, frustrated sigh escapes their lips. “You’re just not listening, Lynnae. Pay attention.” They repeat their question & I answer accordingly, but my mind slips back to a time they don’t know.

I contracted chicken pox from Jarid, my older brother, when I was eighteen months old. Mom says she couldn’t place the tip of her pinkie anywhere on my body without touching the bright red blisters. They covered my face, arms, legs & back, they were between my fingers & toes, down my throat, & in my ears. Just looking at the pictures makes me itch. The common childhood disease passed quickly, but the effects changed my life.

Mom held me, a screaming three-year-old, in her arms as she called the doctor’s office. “I need an appointment for Lynnae. . . . No, not in two weeks. Today.” Mom knew the office would close soon—it was Saturday—but she was desperate. I had been screaming for an hour. My ears where throbbing. Though I don’t remember the pain of that first experience, I remember others. The pain is indescribable. Mom finally haggled the nurse into an after-hours appointment that day. Eventually, the pain subsided & I stopped screaming.

That doctor’s appointment started years of monthly ear appointments. The chicken pox I contracted at eighteen months developed into Otitis Media, water on the ear in layman’s terms. The screaming was my eardrum bursting for the first time—my left eardrum would burst another three times & my right eardrum twice before I turned eight.

Unlike most kids my age, I loved going to the doctor’s office. Books & toys filled the waiting room—hour long waits seemed to fly bye as I read Dr. Seuss’ Lorax & caught up with Ranger Rick in Highlighter. The waiting room slowly emptied as I waited my turn. Finally, a nurse with red hair called my name, directed Mom & I to a room filled with medical equipment, & notified us that, “Dr. Hahn will be right with you.” I sat in a leather chair with more contraptions than a dentist’s chair & waited for Dr. Hahn.

A few minutes later, Dr. Hahn entered the room. Dr. Fredrick Hahn is one of my favorite people: I always smiled when he entered the room. A white laboratory coat covered his sixty-something year old, slender six-foot figure. The troll with neon blue hair peeking out of his pocket would seem strange, until you noticed that Dr. Hahn’s hair, though white, seems to be styled the same: a mix of Einstein & Doc Brown from Back to the Future. He completes the look with a headb& connected to a circular mirror that leaves a red indention on his forehead.

During the appointment, Dr. Hahn cleaned my ears with a metal funnel & tweezers & checked the condition of my eardrum. He always allowed Mom to look in my ear & explained to both of us, in medical & layman’s terms, the condition of my eardrum. Before the appointment ended, he dictated the details of my visit to his computer—just by talking. To me, Dr. Hahn just the man who took care of me & called me his favorite red-headed patient, to the world, Dr. Fredrick Hahn was the foremost ear doctor: leagues ahead of his colleagues.

Mom & I left Dr. Hahn’s office & headed down the hall to my hearing test with Dr. Hare. The room looked like a recording studio: an outer room with sound equipment for the audiologist & a sound-proof room for the patient. I saw Mom & the doctor through a thick glass window as I sat in the sound-proof room with headphones on & the testing began. Static buzzed in one of my ears while I repeated words to Dr. Hare. “Oatmeal, airplane, thermos,” he read each word distinctly, separating the syllables. The yellow paper covered his lips, stopping me from lip-reading. I cheated anyway. After five years of testing, I had the list memorized. I knew my hearing was declining, but something in me didn’t want him to know. If I couldn’t hear one syllable, I simply guessed the word from what I did hear. He fluxuated the volume, testing my hearing range. In my least favorite test, Dr. Hare used beeps instead of words. The beeps reverberated in my brain for hours afterwards.

In October 1996, Dr. Hahn delivered devastating news. I needed surgery. The bursting caused my eardrums to lie across my middle ear bones. Fluid built up beneath the eardrum & caused two of the three bones in my left ear to deteriorate completely. Without surgery, I would lose hearing in my left ear completely. My world shattered. Within a few weeks, Mom worked with the doctor’s office to schedule my first surgery: December 30, 1996.

The morning of the surgery, Dad & Mom drove me the half-mile to Independence Regional Hospital. A nurse directed us to a cold, white room in the children's wing. She blushed & apologized as she handed Mom an adult's hospital gown, "Sorry, we're out of gowns in her size.--Oh, & she'll have to remove all of her clothes for surgery." My eyes bugged out of my head--all of my clothes? I couldn't understand why I had to remove my underwear when they were operating on my ears. Mom just laughed & helped me change. The gown swam around me. Mom wove the ties in & out of the arm holes & around my waist for a snug fit. After I changed, nurses prepped me for surgery. Sticky pads connected me to a heart monitor—I couldn’t move without tangling cords.

Then, we waited for Dr. Hahn to arrive. We waited for an hour. Literally.

Dr. Hahn arrived at 8:30 am, flashed a smile & donned his white lab coat. I tried to act brave as I left my parents & a nurse wheeled me to the operating room.

When I got to the operating room, a male nurse transferred me to a new bed. Horror filled my heart as he lifted me off of the bed--what if my gown separated? My heart stopped thumping only when I safely reached the operating table. The anesthesiologist strapped a cherry-scented breathing mask to my face. For the next three hours I endured the horrible scent of cherry-flavored medicine. Disgusting. Before I had a chance to evaluate the room around me, Dr. Hahn’s head appeared above me, “We can begin. She’s asleep.” I panicked. “I’m awake, I’m awake!” my head screamed. The world began to spin around me. I fell asleep staring at the cold operating lamp above me.

I awoke in a panic. “Where am I? Why am I connected to all these wires?” I struggled to roll over & untangle myself. “Good morning, Sunshine!” I almost wet the hospital gown I was wearing. As I rolled over, Dad leaned forward & placed his face just centimeters form my own.

The surgery was a success. The following June Dr. Hahn performed the same surgery, a tempanoplasty, on my right ear. I still have moderate hearing loss, but it could be worse.

I can hear you now—most of the time.

So the next time I ask you to repeat something don’t get angry or frustrated. Though sometimes I don’t hear, I promise I’m listening.

kansas city lights

Christmas in Kansas City, for my family, begins the day after Thanksgiving. My parents rise early on Black Friday, not to beat the crowds to the department stores and malls, but to select the perfect tree for our living room. The sun is just breaking the grey morning sky when they return home with their prize. When I hear them enter, I jump out of bed and run to the large, grey radio in the kitchen. Within a few minutes, to Mom’s and my delight and my brother’s groaning, Christmas music fills the house.

As soon as we are dressed, my sister Crystal and I climb up a rickety ladder to the sweltering attic to pull Hallmark boxes full of ornaments and decorations into the living room. We untangle strands of white, blue, and red lights, select ornaments, and decorate the tree. By lunch, the tree stands by the front window, displaying it’s Christmas glory to the neighborhood. After lunch, Dad accompanies Craig, Jarid, and I to the attic to find the lights for the house. Mom hears thumps and laughter float through the ceiling as the four of us string the house with lights. Within a couple hours, a bead of white lights ices the house.

When I leave for school a few days later, I leave knowing that Christmas has come to Kansas City.

When I return home for Christmas break in mid-December, Kansas City greets me with snow and the twinkle of millions of lights. Sometime in the first week home, Mom and I drive around the city just to see all the lights on the houses. From the poor district where I grew up to the ritzy houses downtown, all of Kansas City celebrates the season with lights. Reds, greens, blues, and whites ice the eaves of the houses. Some race around the structure, others twinkle on and off, but most emit a steady, constant glow.

It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas in Kansas City.

The highlight of my Christmas holiday includes a family trip to downtown Kansas City and the Country Club Plaza. The Hallmark complex, located in the center of downtown, hosts a myriad of holiday family activities: ice skating, shopping, fine dining, and theatres. The grey December sky contrasts the illumination of the Mayor’s Christmas tree, our first stop. My family and I stand bundled beneath a 40-foot tree, gazing up at the slightly twisted pine strung with wooden ornaments and white lights. Eight-foot Nutcrackers guard the tree and the children play on a large train that surrounds the base. Bare trees iced with lights line the sidewalk up to the outdoor ice rink where a hundred people laugh as they skate in circles. The crowds thicken as we leave the biting winds and enter Crown Center.

The doors of Crown Center open to a large food court where a community high school or church choir sings Christmas carols. Mom and I hum along as we listen. My family wanders from store to store with no goal in mind except the annual visit to the train store. Crown Center and the Hallmark complex are connected by a little hallway that houses a train store. I remember visiting the train store every Christmas since I was five. Christmas would not be complete without watching the trains race around little villages and through tree-covered mountains.

As much as I love the lights and buzz of Crown Center, nothing compares to the Plaza lights. As Dad drives us a few blocks south of downtown, we are transported to Old World Spain. Buildings mimicking Sevilla, Spain, rise on both sides and the streets are lined with cars from around the world. Dad maneuvers the car between people, cars, and horse-pulled carriages to find a parking spot on the upper level of a parking deck. Christmas greets us as we step up to the snow-covered railing under the sky. Christmas music spills from every store and the sidewalks buzz with patrons as they shop for the perfect gift. The sharp clip-clop of horse hooves on the pavement sounds natural and drowns out the blaring car horns.

It’s Christmas in Kansas City.

Christmas is more than the sounds of Christmas music, laughter, and horses. As I step out of the car, I silence the noise around me and around. The real Christmas beauty isn’t captured by sound but by sight. Dad and I look down the street, not at the people, but at the lights. Thousands of Christmas lights outline the Plaza’s Spanish architecture against the black December sky. For a few minutes, the world disappears--it’s just Dad and me standing by the railing looking at the stars and Christmas lights.

As we drive home, Karen Carpenter’s smooth alto fills the car, “Oh, there’s no place like home for the holidays.” I have to agree. For me, nothing is better than Kansas City’s light.

It’s Christmas in Kansas City.

happy birthday to who?

September 23, my baby brother, Craig, celebrated his twentieth birthday. Throughout the day he received birthday wishes in a variety of forms: face-to-face greetings, the buzz of a text message, and posts on his facebook wall. Craig and I celebrated his birthday together eating Taco Bell and laughing at all his undesired attention. Friends, family, and strangers contacted him nonstop wishing him well on his birthday. As outgoing as he is, Craig hates receiving that much attention. While we laughed at his ridiculous responses, Craig delivered food for thought. He suggested that we wish Mom happy birthday, since, “she did all the work.” I almost choked on my Burrito Supremo. Mom?


Craig’s thought haunted me. Why don’t I wish Mom “Happy Birthday”? Yes, Mom birthed me, but what she birthed in me is greater. Nearly every aspect of my daily life connects to an idea or belief she instilled in me. Without Mom, in essence, I cease to exist. She created me.


First, Mom birthed in me the desire to serve. Mom serves everywhere. As I grew up, Mom worked at home to help pay the bills. The hum of her sewing machine filled the house. She never complained about working, in fact, she loved helping Dad. In 1996, her Alma Mater, Tri-City Christian School, hired her to teach art classes. Since then her roles have grown to include computer classes, office work, alumni coordination, and running the lunch room. Her impact on hundreds of students in the past fourteen years amazes me. She makes herself available to both staff and students, no matter how busy her schedule. She serves wherever she is asked, never expecting or wanting praise. A smile always adorns her face—even when life seems to be spiraling out of control. As I watched her minister, I learned that the reward of serving outweighs self-promotion.


Mom also taught me to overcome my fears. As a young child, thunderstorms terrified me. The booming sound of thunder sent me running to Mom—even in the dead of night. Dad’s strict “no child in my bed” rule left me crouched on the floor by their bed, trembling in the darkness. Mom always knew I was there. Her hand stretched out of the darkness and connected with mine. The terrifying booms faded and I fell asleep beside her bed, tightly grasping Teddy and her hand. Her hand comforted me—gave me courage to face the unknown. When I found out I had to have ear surgery, I clung to Mom’s hand. She sat with me, holding my hand and encouraging me with Scripture. While teaching me to overcome my fears, she birthed in me the necessity to turn to Christ for all things.


Craig’s comment set my mind in motion—I considered all that Mom birthed in me. When I returned to the dorm after dinner with Craig, I got on facebook and wished Mom happy birthday. I thanked her for not only birthing Craig, but also for birthing so much of my character as well. Two weeks later Mom sent me an e-mail that changed my life.


On October 4, Mom celebrated her fortieth spiritual birthday. My “happy birthday” made her think about her spiritual birthday. She shared that, like Craig, she had no part in her spiritual birth. Her salvation was a result of Christ’s labor of love on the cross.


Once again, “happy birthday” set my mind in motion.


On December 17, 1996, one week after my eighth birthday, Mom became my spiritual mother. With trembling knees and a heavy heart, I talked to Mom about salvation as Dad and the boys packed for a hunting trip. She took me to her room, wrapped her arms around me, and pulled out her old leather-bound Bible. Nothing else mattered. For twenty minutes she turned the thin pages and labored over me. She led me to Christ.


Her labor of love didn’t stop there. Every day we celebrate our “happy birthdays” together by sharing what God continues to teach us about Himself. The email I received on October 5 showed Mom’s deep love and compassion for me. I stopped in awe as I read her email. She is the reason I celebrate my spiritual birthday. Christ has, and continues to, use her to grow me in Him.


I never expected Craig’s birthday to incite so much thought, but it did. Who do you wish “happy birthday” to? Who has impacted and shaped you?


For me, the answer is Mom.


Happy Birthday, Mom.

blank pages--journal 5

A blank page inspires me. Whether plain or lined, the page asks me to fill it. The scrambled thoughts in my head surge down my arms to my fingers until they spill onto the page. The ambiguous cloud of thoughts forms structured lines of processed thoughts. The page fills as letters form words, words form sentences, and sentences form paragraphs. My thoughts become reality: I am writing.

I speak through writing. To whom do I speak? Myself. Yes, I enjoy talking to others. In fact, Dad says sometimes I hardly know when to shut up, but sometimes I need to talk to myself. Writing my thoughts down allows me to think through them more clearly. I balance the pros and cons; I think through situations from multiple angles. I write. I don’t edit or evaluate what spills onto the page. Nouns don’t always agree with their verbs, and that’s ok. I simply write, letting the thoughts flow, unedited.

Writing nails my feet to the floor—keeps me from floating away on cloud nine. Evaluations come later, when I take the time to read my thoughts on the page.

Every year Dad feeds my writing habit by giving me a new journal. I prefer leather-bound, lined journals. The leather binding gives flexibility and the lined pages satisfy my obsessive desire for neatness. Journals of various shapes, colors, and sizes line my bookshelves. The thoughts that fill the journals vary as widely as the journals themselves. My personality fills every journal, every page, and every line. Journaling bans nothing. I write about everything—my hopes and my fears, my dreams and my disasters. Thoughts escape and live as I write them down.

Words, once absent, now fill this page. What will fill the pages of my next journal? Words, thoughts, life—me.