I’m Jeremy, the second of Kari’s three little brothers.
I was asked recently how I would describe my relationship with Kari. My first
reaction was to think, “well, she was my sister.” But as I tried to articulate, I realized
our relationship wasn’t quite that easy to describe. We weren’t your typical siblings.
When I was first getting to know my wife Sarah, we were telling one another about
our families, she was sharing about some relationship challenges with her sister
and I responded, “I understand, my sister doesn’t even talk to me.” Sarah didn’t
really know what to say to that.
So how do I describe a relationship with someone who never said a word to me?
Never signed to me? and never wrote to me?
From an outside perspective, it may seem that Kari’s condition cheated me of a
sister. Some may look at Kari’s life story, and see it as a tragedy. Others may focus
on the sacrifices my parents had to make to care for her. It can be hard to see past
the wheelchair, the lifts, the van, the disability.
I want to try and explain our relationship, and my perspective on Kari’s life, through
some short stories. One thing you will see is that I firmly believe Kari understood her
surroundings in a lot more ways than we give her credit for.
When I first learned to walk, I would pull up on Kari’s chair and it would roll, causing
me to take a step. Matthew did the same thing, and mom always joked that Kari
taught us how to walk.
When I was three or four, I would play in Kari’s bed. Sometimes it was a boat, and I
had to protect her from sharks. At other times it was a castle; I was the knight, and
she was the princess I needed to defend. I remember her smiling, and in my mind,
she loved playing with me.
As I grew, I started to notice that kids would stare at Kari. I would defend her by
glaring at them till they felt awkward and looked away.
Kari and I sometimes shared a room or a bunk bed. We would lay in our beds and
play a game where she would coo, and I would mimic the sound. She would then
make another sound which I would again copy. We’d go back and forth until one of
us fell asleep.
As I got bigger I would hold her on the couch. I would message her scalp, and she
would smile at me.
Once, Kari was laying on the couch and stretched out her leg, as a result she kicked
a plant off the end table and it shattered on the floor. Mom came into the room and
started yelling at me. Before I could even start defending myself, we saw that Kari
was smiling from ear to ear at how she’d gotten me in trouble.
When I was around 12 Kari was hospitalized. She had been having uncontrolled
seizures, and they put her in a medically induced coma to get them under control.
They had taken her off the medication, but she wasn’t waking up. Mom and dad
wanted me to come see her in case she didn’t wake. I came into the hospital room,
got up into her bed and talked to her. She opened her eyes and smiled at me, from
that point she made a full recovery. It felt like she knew I still needed her.
Kari was great at keeping a secret. I realized I could talk to her about anything and
she wouldn’t spread it around. I would often talk through issues with her to help me
process. I remember once telling her, through some tears, about a girl problem I
was having. I realized through her glares that I needed to break up.
Kari was there when I first told Sarah I loved her. Kari’s smile seemed to say she was
glad I had finally figured things out.
Kari was the first person I told when we were expecting Elia. When we shared the
news with my parents Kari had a huge smile. Maybe there was a little gloating
because she knew before mom.
I felt blessed that in these last few weeks we knew the end was coming. I got to
spend time holding her while she was still alert. On Sunday, the week she died, we
shared with Matthew that Kari didn’t have long to live, he turned to her and said,
“Kari, you’re going to heaven?” she opened her eyes and gave him a bright smile,
one like we hadn’t seen in some time.
Kari knew it was time, and that her suffering would soon be over. But for me it felt
like she still had more to do. She still had another little brother to raise, and I
wanted my daughters to know and remember her. She’s left a void that no one else
can fill.
Kari was a force of stability and consistency throughout my sometimes-chaotic life.
She was an incredible example of patience, toughness, flexibility, and joy in all
circumstances.
Through watching mom care for Kari, I saw a practical example of compassion,
love, and faithfulness.
God used Kari’s life to shape mine. She taught me empathy, helped me be less selfcentered, and gave me perspective about life’s challenges.
Without her, I wouldn’t work in disability services. I wouldn’t know many of my
closest friends, and I wouldn’t have met my wife.
Kari did so much for me, but each day she had to fight through significant pain. I
rejoice that she has finally met the great healer face to face. I guess it’s now up to
me to carry on the lessons she taught me.
In the end, I don’t feel robbed. I don’t feel gipped. I was not cheated out of a sister.
Kari impacted my life beyond what I can describe.
People often tell me how special my family is for being able to care for Kari. They tell
me my mother is a saint. They say, “it takes a special person.”
But I want to flip that thinking on its head. Jesus called us to love the least of these.
My parents simply chose to love their daughter. If my family is special, it’s only
because of how God has used that choice, and Kari’s life to shape us more into His
image.
Thank you Kari for letting God use you, we love you!
joyinaforeignland.com 