Between the Tulip Trees: a memoir

By Kimberly Earl-Weicht

In this heartwarming memoir, Kimberly Earl-Weicht shares her joys and sorrows through a string of unexpected life events, including tragic loss. Despite it all, God's grace and blessings abound as prayers are answered in a way she would have never imagined.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9781667803593

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Between the Tulip Trees

a memoir

©2021 Kimberly Earl-Weicht

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

print ISBN: 978-1-66780-358-6

ebook ISBN: 978-1-66780-359-3

Contents

Part 1

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Part 2

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Part 1

Chapter 1

October 10, 2017

The loss is immeasurable, but so is the love left behind.

It was raining outside; the kind of steady, soaking rain ushered in by autumn in the Midwest, yet there wasn’t the slightest trace of a breeze rattling the brightly colored leaves on the trees, I noticed. Even the sky is crying with us was my numb thought as I gazed out the upstairs window of my ten-year-old son’s bedroom that morning.

I had told myself not to watch, which is why I had taken the kids upstairs with me in the first place. I didn’t want them to see their dad, too still, covered by a sheet, being wheeled out of the main level master bedroom by a stranger.

In the end, though, I couldn’t stop myself. I watched while the man from the funeral home carefully pushed him down the three-tiered sidewalk and gently loaded him into the back of the inconspicuous, dark-colored minivan parked in front of the house. I watched as he got into the driver’s seat and the van began moving, slowly rounding the curve of the quarter-mile long, concrete driveway that separated our home from the rest of the world. I kept watching until I could no longer catch even the slightest glimpse of it between the tulip trees that lined the driveway. Tony, my husband of fifteen years, thirty-seven years young, was leaving the home and property that he loved so much and had worked so hard to provide for us, for the very last time.

After I had wiped my eyes and gathered the strength to turn away from the window, I saw my two children sitting quietly side by side on Collin’s little boy bed, surrounded by his favorite stuffed animals, various baseball team pictures taped to the wooden headboard behind them.

Some of my fondest memories are from those carefree baseball summers when life was so much easier; before all of the hard things hit, one after another. In each of those pictures I saw Tony—big, strong, and healthy, with his huge, signature smile—who had coached those little boys with rare enthusiasm and dedication; and Collin with his sweet cherub face and missing baby teeth, huge brown eyes, and shy expression, standing proudly in front of his dad.

Now, as I pulled my gaze away from the pictures and back to the kids, I saw in Collin’s eyes, and most of all in thirteen-year-old Whitney’s eyes, the questions that we could neither give voice to nor answer. What comes next? What are we supposed to do now? Unsure of this and infinitely more, we quietly left the room and walked single file back down the gray carpeted staircase into the kitchen.

Two hours earlier, I had climbed on top of the queen-sized bed we had shared for all of those years and held tightly to his hand. I had opened the Christian radio app on my smartphone, and What a Beautiful Name It Is by Hillsong had played quietly through the phone speakers, softening the sound of his chest rattling with every labored breath. It was the only thing I could think to do in that moment that might offer him some extra measure of comfort.

My mom, who had been staying with us for weeks now, sat helplessly on the floor nearby, giving us space, both of us knowing that we could do nothing more. Nothing we could have done for him would have been enough. The cancer had been ruthless, spreading like wildfire through his body, leaving him just a shell of the man he had been only a few short months before.

When he exhaled for the last time, I continued to hold his hand while I sobbed in anguish. After a few minutes passed, I composed myself, said my last goodbyes, and finally sighed in relief that his suffering was over.

What happened next was even more difficult. I woke our sleeping children, first Whitney and then Collin, and told them their daddy had gone to Heaven, watching with a shattered heart as the tears sprang into their eyes, and they climbed out of their warm beds to go see him for the last time.

That night I laid in the dark, too-quiet house, sandwiched between the kids under the freshly laundered sheets with sweet Beau Kitty in his usual place at the foot of the bed. Unable to sleep, memories came rushing in, flooding my heart and soul. Each one had the blurred edges and dreamlike quality that grief settles over everything as if nothing that had transpired had really happened to me, but rather like I had watched it all unfold from afar.

Chapter 2

From the moment we met, it was you.

I grew up in small town Indiana surrounded by cornfields, fresh air, and people who loved me. For thirteen years, I had arrived home from the tiny local public school to my mom, attentive questions about my day, and a healthy snack. A well-balanced, homecooked meal was always ready to be placed on the table the moment my dad walked in the door from work. After dinner and homework, many evenings had been spent at gymnastics or dance lessons.

Friday evenings brought the scent of clean sheets dried on the clothesline, an early bath, and a fresh, soft nightgown; the sound and smell of popcorn popping in oil on the electric stove before watching TGIF shows like Full House and Family Matters with my mom, Ann, dad, Ken, and sister, Lori, in our modest ranch style house with the light-colored brick. I looked forward to Friday nights all week long.

Sundays were filled with church services in the morning and evening, with a big lunch and visits to both sets of grandparents in between. Summers were long and idyllic; drinking from the garden hose, playing hide and seek on our large country lot, walking through the corn field behind the house, then down the railroad tracks to our tiny town’s only store for a candy bar. My favorite pastime was reading books for hours on end, perched high on a branch in my favorite maple tree, the gentle breeze the only air-conditioning I needed. Back when life was simple.

For as long as I could remember, I had looked forward to becoming a wife and mother and having a stable, scheduled home of my own. My favorite Christmas present is still the first Cabbage Patch Doll my parents gave me when I was five years old. Thirty-five years later, I vividly remember sitting on the carpeted floor near the artificial tree with its multi-colored lights in the cozy living room warmed by electric baseboard heat, unwrapping this present with great excitement. Pam was her name, and she had short, curly, yellow yarn hair.

I still have her to this day, safely tucked away high on a shelf as treasures often are. I loved Pam and took care of her dutifully like she was a living, breathing child, all the while wondering what my new last name would someday be when I grew up and married the man of my dreams.

One beautiful, sunny Saturday in June of 2002, the first part of that dream came true. I married Tony, my college sweetheart. Tall with broad shoulders and fabulous dark curly hair, he had a face not easily forgotten with sharp, distinct features, a deeply dimpled chin, blue-gray eyes that sometimes looked green, and a huge, bright smile.

Ours was a simple story, really. We met the first day of our freshman year of college in speech class. Walking into the sunny, white-tiled classroom of the local Indiana University campus on that late summer day, not a minute early or late, I noticed him sitting alone in the back row with a fresh notebook and pencil laid out and ready and chose the seat right in front of him. For some reason still unknown to me, while hastily grabbing what I needed for class out of my backpack, I asked him if he wanted to move up to the empty seat beside me. Surprised, but without saying a word, he slid into the desk to my left just as the teacher began talking. That was our beginning.

After weeks of shyness and awkward silences before class, we slowly became friends after I asked him what on earth had happened to his face! One Monday, he walked into class with one side of his face scraped and bruised all shades of purple, green, and brown. It looked to me like he had met the worst sort of crowd in a dark alley. He explained that he’d been skiing over the weekend, and instead of skiing down the hill, he’d fallen forward and slid all the way down on his face. That story broke the ice between us (pun intended!), and pretty soon we were chatting in the hallway between classes and studying together in the library. Gradually, we became more than friends. He finally won me over forever with his four-step bowling approach demonstration speech and subtle yet persistent persuasion.

We were somewhat of an unlikely match, both in personality and in background. Tony was an extrovert with a choleric temperament. He was a perfectionist, a planner, and a list-maker. He showed up early everywhere he went and was always well-prepared. He loved to host social gatherings and spend time with big groups of friends. His love language was giving gifts and planning surprises. Everything he did, he did big.

I am more of an introvert. I can talk all day long with a close friend but tend to be quiet and feel self-conscious in larger groups, which sometimes can make me appear unapproachable. I don’t like to be either early or late – to work, to class, to appointments, or to church. My happy place is at home with my family and a good book. I am a deep thinker, and surprises make me nervous. My love language is quality time.

Our backgrounds, while similar in ways, were vastly different in others. Tony grew up twenty minutes to the north of me on a standard city block with his dad, mom, and younger brother. His mom, Phyllis, faithfully worked for many years as a cashier at the nearby grocery store, and his dad, Mike, was an engineer at one of the big automotive factories in town. Tony spent his summers with a babysitter or in daycare when he was young, and then home alone with his brother as they got older.

He arrived home from school to bologna and cheese sandwiches he fixed himself, Nintendo games, and time spent playing outside with neighborhood friends when the weather allowed. Tony’s sport of choice was bowling, which he was very good at, but he also enjoyed playing baseball in his younger years and football in high school.

His parents loved each other, but tension often ran high between them, and they went their separate ways about the same time that Tony and I met. Sundays had always been for sleeping in, and there were no grandparents to visit; they had all passed away too young. Because Tony had some early learning struggles in school, he hadn’t been encouraged to attend college. But he had made up his mind to prove everyone wrong about what he could achieve in life.

We kept our relationship strong for three years, even when Tony transferred to Purdue University which was more than an hour away, taking turns visiting each other on the weekends. After respectfully asking my dad for permission, he packed a nice picnic lunch for us one beautiful day in mid-May 2001. Laying everything out neatly on a quilt by the creek at our favorite park—the one where we always went to feed the ducks—he asked me to marry him. He had worked hard as a meter reader the past few summers and saved up for a lovely princess cut solitaire diamond set on a yellow gold band. He was so nervous as he proposed that he said my middle name wrong, but I hardly noticed in my excitement.

I took summer classes to graduate ahead of schedule with my Bachelor of Arts degree so we could get married the following summer. I worked at the credit union on Purdue’s campus while Tony finished up the last year of his degree in engineering. Like everything else, we had it all figured out.

Our wedding wasn’t elaborate, but to us it was perfect — each detail carefully planned and attended to. I felt every bit the blushing bride that day in my spaghetti-strapped white gown embroidered with beaded flowers, and a train just long enough for my petite frame to manage somewhat gracefully. My dark blonde hair was piled high into a classic updo and adorned with a flower tiara that matched my dress and added the perfect touch to my veil; I was ready to walk down the isle of the pretty little chapel of my home church, aptly named Heartland, proudly escorted by my dad.

That day we pledged our love for each other until death do us part. As Pastor Bill pronounced us man and wife, I looked up at Tony who stood more than a foot taller than me even with my wedding heels on—never more handsome in his black tuxedo and silver vest—and just knew that nothing could compare to this moment. Surrounded by all of our loved ones and silk yellow roses that would never wither, I officially became Kimberly Earl; together we became Kim and Tony, Tony and Kim, Mr. and Mrs. Earl. At the age of twenty-two, the possibilities and years stretched out before us seemed infinite.

Chapter 3

And so together they built a life they loved.

After a picture perfect, week-long honeymoon spent in a quaint one-bedroom cabin in the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee, we moved into a cozy loft townhouse near Purdue and decorated it with mismatched, hand-me-down furniture. Each week, we had just enough money to scrape by. We hardly noticed though; the excitement of being together as husband and wife blinded us to everything else.

Tony worked diligently to earn top grades, while I worked to make that tiny townhouse a home, baking cookies and fixing easy meal-kit suppers each evening after long days of work at the credit union.

In December, we picked out our first Christmas tree together, which filled the whole space with the scent of fresh pine. We bought a special ceramic ornament