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This time, the battle was personal. It was more than just getting up in front of people to sing about Jesus. That, as my husband says, is a privilege that we should feel honored to do...not overwhelmed by the thought. Our goal is simply to bring glory to Him. He is so right, and there are times when it is a "taking every thought captive" exercise for me to cling to that truth and resist the temptation to let my emotions get the better of me.
As we drove the once familiar path to the home town of my parents, the current home of my grandparents, and several aunts and uncles the September winds were suddenly thick with smothering memories from my childhood. It is an amazing thing how a place can hold such history that it almost feels as if the place itself has a life of it's own...so many stories to tell.
We drove over the narrow bridge that I've never been fond of. I closed my eyes and I was seven years old, riding in my dad's red Mazda, eating McDonald's chicken nuggets with hot mustard sauce, dreading the narrow bridge that took us to Grandma's house. I loved visiting my Grandma, but the bridge was a different story.
I suddenly realized that going to sing in the town where my mother and father grew up may hold more emotional obstacles than my typical pre-show stomach ache. I doubled over and tried to shake the emotion. I rarely travel that way, and going back reminds me of so many childhood moments...the missing of those who are no longer here washes over me with such intensity. We drove past the house where my paternal grandparents once lived across from the Dairy Queen. I used to love their french fries. Yes, I know that Dairy Queen is known for ice cream, but I only seem to remember the fries. (Have I mentioned that I've never met a carbohydrate I didn't like?) I also remember my Grandma Wanda's love for vibrant purple and her lilac lipstick.
We stopped beside the semi-trailer that would serve as our make-shift stage, preparing to unload our plethora of gear and instruments, and I looked up at the orange and white water tower behind us. My breath caught in my throat, and I was again a little girl, holding my maternal Grandmother's hand as we entered the grocery store. My eyes followed the path down Main Street, to the beautiful display prepared by my childhood babysitter, who now redecorates furniture (and does an amazing job I might add). I realized that this day, there would be no hiding from the memories of the September winds.
My mother walked these sidewalks before me, and for the rest of that day, I would represent her to the people of this town who remember her shining face. She would be carried with me, and they would be looking for a reflection of her as they looked into my eyes. I would not be the person I am today...the person who I am most days as I go about life: Kelly Gerken...wife to Tim, mother to Timothy, Faith, Grace, Thomas, and James, founder of Sufficient Grace Ministries, educational para to special needs children. No...that day, I would be Pat and Kathy's daughter. My father lives in another state, and has since I was about eight or ten. My mother passed away in 2006, and prior to her death, I spent a great deal of my life exerting my stubborn independence from her. (However, I did learn to treasure and appreciate her before she died.) All that to say, I haven't spent much time identifying myself in those terms. But in this quaint small town, much like the one where I grew up, and still reside...I would be known as Pat and Kathy's daughter.
My father's best friend, and the best man in my parent's wedding walked by as we unloaded our gear. I smiled and said "hello", realizing that the memories would be all around as the day wore on. I shook the hand of the sweet lady who invited us to perform at the event, and as I introduced myself, she said, "I would know you anywhere." I nodded again. When I went over to talk to my childhood babysitter, she introduced me to the man beside her, and he said, "You look a lot like your mother." It went on as the day continued. Several others saying..."You're Pat's daughter...or You're Kathy's daughter aren't you? Does your dad still have that curly hair? Boy your mom was quite a wonderful lady." It's funny, growing up, people always said I looked like my dad. But, since mom passed, everyone says I look like her. I see it too, when I look in the mirror. I wonder sometimes if we don't all just miss her so much that we want to catch a glimpse of her any way we can. I don't really mind being that glimpse. It's an honor, but it does stir the emotions already brewing this time of year.
I thought about that for the rest of the day...how it matters where we come from. All of our experiences make up the person we are, whether we understand how it works or not. It may be more of a small town thing. I'm not really sure. Other than visiting, I don't really have any big city experience. I've always lived in a small town, and my parents came from (a different, but much the same kind of) small town. And, in a small town, it matters where you came from, and who you "belong to". In a small town, those details somewhat define who you are.
Prior to stepping on to the stage, I was wondering how I would "put on Christ" and shake the emotions squeezing my heart. Tim knew, and gently reminded me that we were here to serve the Lord. I nodded, more full of feelings than I wanted to be. I blinked back a few tears and turned to an older gentleman with a ball cap and an almost toothless grin waving me to come over. I stepped away from the stage and walked over to him. He asked what kind of music we played and shared that he played the banjo and several other instruments, including a harmonica, which he promptly removed from his pocket and began to play for me. In the middle of Main Street. Surrounded by the Festival passerby. I did what anyone else would do. I smiled and clapped along, tapping my feet to the beat as he played proudly.
Then...he began to yodel.
You heard me.
He yodelled right there on Main Street...in the midst of the festival, and I forgot for a few minutes all the history surrounding me. I forgot everything but the sweet man, yodelling a song for me in the middle of Main Street and the God of my heart who sent him there to let me know that He always knows exactly what I need. I wasn't sure how I would muster the courage to take that stage, with all of those emotions. God knew what I needed. And, he sent a harmonica-playing yodeller to do the job.
He told me his name and shook my hand, then wrapped his arms around me in a big hug. And off he went.
We went "backstage" and Dave led us in prayer. Then we climbed the steps and just as it usually happens when I opened my mouth to sing, the peace of the Holy Spirit washed over me. For the next 52 minutes, the only thing that mattered was being a vessel of praise for Him. The only thing that mattered was singing the name of Jesus in the town of my parents. The only thing that mattered was the smile on the faces of the children dancing joyfully in front of our "stage" and my maternal grandparents sitting by James and smiling as we played/sang. For the next 52 minutes He lifted me, as He is always faithful to do. And, I was free. I was Kelly Gerken, daughter of the King, put here to serve Him, and bring Him glory. And that was all that mattered.
My harmonica-playing, yodelling friend even came back and played his harmonica in the crowd during our performance, tapping his feet and smiling with his eyes. I smiled back, wondering about our encounter.
(Thanks, Glenn and Toni for taking this pic!)
Later, I asked several people if they knew who he was. Everyone knows everyone in a small town.
No one knew him, or where he came from...but he was there. And, he blessed and encouraged me in a way that I didn't even know I needed. Interesting, don't you think?
