Intersecting Paths . . . The Flagger

“No man or woman proceeds alone.

All of us are largely the products of the lives which touch upon our lives.”

- Gordon B. Hinckley

            Along this journey we call life, we cross paths with many different people. Some pass by unnoticed; others kicking up a cloud of dust, and others leave a lasting impression. During those difficult teenage years, my path intersected with three individuals who truly changed the course of my life . . . the flagger – who warned of the slippery conditions on the road I was traveling and offered directions to a safer route; the co-pilot – who helped me stay the course and stay true to myself as we journeyed together; and the billboard – who provided hope for the future like the billboards for Wall Drug along the never-ending barren roads of eastern South Dakota. These individuals each played a unique and distinctive role in my life and our intersecting paths were not coincidental.  

PART 1 – THE FLAGGER

           With the foundation my parents had laid for me, I entered high school with a firm moral conviction to abstain from drugs, alcohol, tobacco, and sex. My friend bet me $20 that I’d drink alcohol during my four years in high school. I accepted the bet, knowing that I would be the victor. High school, however, proved to be more challenging than I anticipated. I had finally blossomed from the ugly duckling, awkward tomboy to a girl with curves who could turn a few heads. I was no longer just “Neil’s sister” to his senior friends – they smiled at me, flirted with me, and paid me compliments. Yet, I was an insecure teenage girl who felt lost, longing to belong, and be a part of the group. Consequently, I purposefully put myself in various situations that tested my moral convictions.

. . . to this

From this . . .

Reading through my journal from that year makes me cringe – if I could go back and visit the younger version of me, I would tell her, “Be yourself – beautiful, imperfect you. Your worth is not determined by your outward appearance, but rather your heart.” But alas, I cannot. Entries of my interactions with the various boys I liked, the fun I had, who I hung out with, and my weekend activities fill the pages of my journal with infrequent snippets about my family and feelings. There is a sadness and hollowness in my writing. I was always looking for a good time and someone to hang out with. I lacked confidence in myself – not really knowing who I was, but trying to be who I thought everyone wanted me to be. I had dark thoughts about myself from time to time, thinking that no one liked me and contemplating anorexia and bulimia as a means to be thinner like my friends (I wish now I was as “fat” as I thought I was then). I had a large group of friends from freshmen to seniors and yet, I often felt alone.

Unbeknownst to my parents, I attended parties where drugs and alcohol prevailed. I tried to relax and have a good time, but panic raced through me at the thought of getting caught and disappointing my parents. Although, I never engaged in any illegal or immoral activity, I found myself in a turbulent sea, struggling to tread water while holding fast to my morals. I was the target of a few senior girls who sought to get me high. One of my friends had a pregnancy scare at the tender age of 15; another’s reputation was ruined when she broke up with her boyfriend, another confided her suicidal thoughts to me, and others were experimenting with drugs. I continued in my naïve ways – attending parties, playing poker, giving back rubs, seeking the attention of any good looking boy in hopes that his acceptance would grant me a feeling of validity.

At the end of the school year, my friend and I attended a party off some back-country road. At the party, another friend, Matt (a senior), came to me, put his arm around me and asked, “What are you doing here? You shouldn’t be here. This is not where you belong.” He proceeded to tell me of my future – being selected for National Honor Society as a sophomore, graduating with Honors, college, the man I would marry . . . I nervously smiled at him, but his words rang true somewhere deep within. That moment was cut short as we thought we heard sirens. Fear enveloped me, and for the first time I realized that I could lose it all (in Iowa, regardless of whether you are drinking or not, you are guilty by association). I could lose my place on the dance team, my position as Class President, any hope of being selected for the National Honor Society; I could lose the trust of my parents. Matt offered to escort me from the party scene, fleeing on foot if necessary. Fortunately, it was a false alarm. Wanting to leave, I searched for my friend and found her sipping a beer. I stood, open mouthed, and in a state of shock, feeling disheartened and partially responsible as I stared at her. My friend, who had pledged with me not to drink alcohol, had succumbed to the pressure. I tried to get her to leave with me, but she wouldn’t. Realizing that I would have to stand alone, I caught a ride with another friend, said goodbye to the party scene, and never looked back. Matt had offered a peek of what my future held and I knew had to change my ways to attain it.

That was a turning point for me. The next entry in my journal (following the events from that night at the party), I wrote at a church camp. It reads, “I know that Christ died for me and my sins. That is the greatest gift I have ever been given – repentance. I hope to better my life and the lives of all those around me. . .” It concludes with my re-dedication to remain a virgin until I marry and to refrain from drugs and alcohol. Matt intersected my path at a pivotal point, questioning my actions and offering a glimpse of my future. I doubt he recalls the events of that night, but the concern and care he showed towards me are forever etched upon my heart. He was the flagger on that gravel road who warned of the potential dangers ahead and offered directions to a better road that would take me where I wanted to go. To Matt and all the flaggers out there - thank you! I'm grateful our paths intersected when they did.

Who was the flagger on your journey - intersecting your life at a crucial point? Did you give heed to his/her directions? How has your life changed?

           

ROADMAPS

“The tale of someone's life begins before they are born.” 
― Michael Wood, Shakespeare

In many ways the paths and roads I have taken or made in my life are the result of the individual paths of my parents and the road they forged together. The same is true for each one of us. If you think about it, our lives are much like a road map where a dirt road intersects a state road; a state road a highway; and a highway an interstate. You can go from one to the other and back again. The road that is our life is not our own, neither are our stories – they began long before you or I were born and will continue long after we die. A closer examination of this road map will show the intricacies of how of our stories spin together and overlap to create a complex web of seemingly individual, yet shared, experiences and lessons. My parents are a great example of this concept and their story will help you understand who I am and the roads I have chosen to travel.

My parents were an unlikely pair and their story is fit for a fairy tale. My dad, a stubborn, rebellious, and misguided youth from the Bronx of New York, joined the Navy at 18 with the intent to die. While in boot camp, he befriended a country boy from Iowa who encouraged him to select a Midwestern girl to write from his collection of senior pictures. Dad selected my mom’s picture and the correspondence began. He took his leave to Iowa to meet the beautiful girl (my mom). Within moments of meeting face to face, a deep feeling of familiarity, that they knew each other from sometime before, swelled in both their hearts and minds. Thus; began their whirlwind romance, but it was not without shortcomings as their worlds collided.

In the Midwest and especially in farming communities, it is quite common for one to simply lift a finger while driving as a means of saying hello. My father, however, was unaware of such a custom, thought the people were giving him the bird, and proceeded to flip off the entire town. His vocabulary also proved to be a challenge. While eating Sunday dinner with my mom’s family, he said, “Please pass the ‘f-ing’ potatoes.” Followed by, “I’m so ‘f-ing’ sorry.” Silence, shock, and horror filled the room. My grandpa quickly spoke up and came to my dad’s rescue, “I understand son. I also served in the military.”

With some divine intervention, my mom’s parents gave their consent for her to wed. And so the small town girl married the big city boy at the young age of 19. They would live in Washington State, on the beaches of Hawaii, and in Connecticut while my dad served as a Navy diver on a submarine. They loved each other with a fierce, fiery passion, lived for the moment, and were always looking for a good time (this was 70’s – use your imagination). Two years into their marriage, they welcomed my oldest brother Bryan, who was truly a God-send as my parents were only going to raise dogs. With parenthood came responsibility, a longing for guidance on how to raise their child, and a thirst for knowledge.

While on patrol one night a few years later, a man provided such insight by sharing his testimony and his convictions about the gospel of Jesus Christ. My tough, rather uncouth dad was humbled as his heart was pierced with this man’s words. He accepted the challenge to read The Book of Mormon and to pray to know if it was true. With a stubborn determination to know for himself, Dad quit smoking cold turkey, stopped drinking and changed his “other” habits. In doing so, the questions that had plagued him since his youth and had been the cause of his beatings in parochial school, were finally answered. He experienced a mighty change of heart and prayed that his sweetheart would too. 

His heartfelt pleadings were heard and answered. My parents joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in 1976. My dad’s aunt, a Roman Catholic nun, said that any religion that could change Dad to the man he is today is a miracle from God. Two years later, following the birth of my brother Marc, my parents left the Navy life to settle in small town Iowa. My mom opened up her own beauty salon in our house and my dad worked various jobs. They welcomed another boy in 1979, my brother Neil.

My three brothers kept them busy – flooding the upstairs bathroom, ramming Matchbox cars into new drywall, and other crazy adventures that left my mom in tears and frustrated. A few years later, Mom was pregnant again and longing for a little girl. She had what she calls, “one of the most amazing dreams,” in which, I came to her, told her why I chose our family and what my purpose was in life. My mom awoke and stared out at the starry night sky for quite some time pondering on her dream. She eventually drifted back to sleep only to forget the details of what I had said, but with a sure knowledge that she was going to have a girl.

Eight days late, a whopping 10 lbs, and the cord wrapped around my neck, I made my entrance into this world during the Iowa vs. Indiana basketball game. Mom has always claimed that I was her angel after all those crazy boys. Unfortunately, my angelic nature had a slight defect – an ineffective esophageal sphincter which led to the nickname of “barfy baby.” I threw up each and every time I ate – all over mom in the middle of church service and even in my brother’s mouth following a game of airplane. Poor Marc!

I idolized my three older brothers. I spent my days chasing after their shadows, riding bikes, babysitting their tadpoles, cheering them on at wrestling tournaments, and spinning heroic tales about them. While other girls wore dresses trying to impress the boys, I sported a ponytail, my brother’s clothes (sorry Neil), my Air Jordan’s and consistently beat the boys in arm wrestling - not exactly the best approach to winning my crush over. Beyond that tomboy exterior, I loved to dance and help Mom in the shop, removing the rollers from the sweet old ladies’ hair.

We were not a “perfect family.” We made mistakes, we fought, and we didn’t always like each other, but love was expressed daily. My parents instructed us from the scriptures, took us to church on Sunday, and taught us to pray – although many of our family prayers began and ended in fits of laughter and disapproving looks from Mom. Traditions were important – big family dinners with extended family on Sundays and holidays, being singled out and celebrated on your birthday, and camping in a tent at the lake in the summer. A tradition that didn’t pan out was the cross country road trip in a maxi van to New York - driving 24 hours straight. Perhaps, because we ended up getting lost in the ghetto while my mom searched for a bathroom or the cost factor and my dad’s lack of patience. Mom and Dad worked hard to make ends meet, providing for our family and their three “honorary children” who lived with us throughout the years. They experienced seasons of unemployment, broken appliances, medical expenditures, and simultaneous teenage drivers. 

The road they forged together, laid the foundation for me and my brothers to write our own stories and choose our own paths and roads to follow. Our stories are each unique, although they share the same origination - they are our own and yet they're not . . .  Where did the foundation of your road begin – was it happy, sad, good, or bad?

The Road of Life

“Don’t get so caught up with ‘your plan,’ that you miss

 the better plan God has for you.”  -L. Smith

We are all travelers on the road of life – our journeys are each unique, but encompass a combination of similar roads. Some of us are spinning our wheels digging ourselves deeper in the mud. Others are cruising along, throwing caution to the wind, and searching for the next thrill. Some are stuck in a round-about, going round and round - dizzy, confused, and uncertain of how to exit. Others are going the wrong way on a one way street. Some are making their way peacefully and quietly along the scenic dirt roads – content to slow down and enjoy the drive. Others find themselves on a washboard gravel road – longing for the smooth ride of a highway. And finally, there are those who have their journey mapped out and planned to the T – who are confident and sure of their future.

            I was that girl who had a plan for my life (a rather broad and idealistic plan to change the world), but still it was a plan. Perhaps I was naïve, but it never occurred to me that life would take me on so many different paths – that I would encounter detours, dead-end roads, flat tires, and would even have to make a few U-turns. I never imagined life on a scenic dirt road – this was not in my plan and yet, I’m content here. This alternate route has taught me to slow down, live in the moment, and find joy in the journey.

Hi. I’m Kristen and this is my story – a story of how my decisions at the crossroads of life ultimately altered my course. You won’t find a fairy tale, a magic wand to right the wrong in the blink of an eye, or a song for every scene in my story. This is not a Harlequin romance based on lust, but rather my life – real, imperfect, sometimes messy, and saturated with love. I invite you to laugh, sigh, roll your eyes, and even cry with me as I take you for a ride with the telling of my life’s story. Along the way, you might recognize a version of yourself, find the strength to hold on a little longer, discover your own faith, learn how to ask for directions, or find courage to take the alternate route to the life you had planned. Join with me, my fellow travelers; as we journey on the various paths that lead me to this scenic dirt road I call home.