Kelly Kelly Tough

Live Courageously by Faith
1. Auflage 2015
ISBN: 978-1-4245-5019-7
Verlag: BroadStreet Publishing Group, LLC
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 224 Seiten

Do not let the title Kelly Tough fool you. This is not a 'be all you can be, no pain-no gain' story. Toughness is overrated. And being Kelly Tough, well, you are about to find out what that really means and why it just might matter to you. Kelly Tough is a story of love and hope: a love between a father and a daughter-Buffalo Bill's former quarterback, Jim Kelly, and his oldest daughter Erin. Erin shares a deeply personal account of the love a family can have for each other during the darkest times, and a greater love that a heavenly Father has for you. Whatever circumstance or heartbreak you find yourself overwhelmed by right now, it is not the end of the story. In fact, it just might be one of the greatest chapters as you, like the Kelly's, find strength in weakness, hope in the midst of heartache, and joy in spite of suffering.

Erin Kelly is the oldest daughter of Jim and Jill Kelly. She has always had a passion for writing, journaling, and sharing her faith. A sought-after speaker to young women, Erin has co-authored 5 books with her sister, Camryn. She attends Liberty University in Lynchburg, Virginia.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Kelly, Erin

Leseproben

PROLOGUE

The distance that divided us stood like a towering wall between me and the hug I ached to give my dad.

A gray and grim sky shrouded Jerusalem, ushering in a cold and dreary day that cast a sullen damper on our trip. It was Friday, March 14, 2014, spring break my freshman year at Liberty University. Mom and I were on a study tour in Israel with a group of students and their parents. We were only able to use our phones for a short time during the day, and with the time change being so significant, the window to communicate with family back home was brief at best.

Our guide had just led us into what was thought to be the place where Pontius Pilate confronted Jesus. As we made our way with the group over to where a presentation would soon begin, my mom felt her phone vibrate. Reaching into her jacket pocket, she pulled it out and peered into the screen. “That’s weird. Uncle Danny is calling me,” she murmured, pivoting to step away and answer the call. She waved me on to continue with the group. I wanted to hear what our guide had to say, but I was distracted and concerned. I knew my dad’s younger brother, Uncle Danny, wasn’t calling to just say hi. Hanging toward the back of the group, I kept an eye on my mom while trying to politely eavesdrop on her conversation. Fear-filled thoughts raced through my mind as a growing sense of dread cast a shadow over my heart. I wondered uneasily. .

At this point, the only presentation I was listening to was my mother’s as my anxiety began to bourgeon into alarm. I continued to wonder, worry, and watch as she moved over to a private space and stood in the corner. By the look on her face and the way she shifted her gait in circles, I knew something was wrong. Uncle Danny wouldn’t have called us unless it was serious, and her body language had me thinking the worst.

Almost a year before our trip, my dad had been diagnosed with squamous-cell carcinoma of the upper jawbone. In early June 2013 he had extensive oral surgery to remove the cancer. The doctors said they had gotten all the margins and that Daddy was cancer free. Although he continued to get MRIs and scans after surgery, the doctors were confident that it was gone, and we were banking on what they said. The nightmare was over—or so we thought. Before we left for the Holy Land, my dad had been suffering severe pain in his upper jaw and cheek, but we had no idea why. Unfortunately, Uncle Danny had confirmed what my mom’s expression had told me…

The news was shocking, and I was devastated. It’s every child’s deepest fear. I didn’t know how bad it was, how much pain he was in, or what the prognosis was. Yet as hard as it was not knowing, I found peace in that moment knowing that God knew, and I chose to rest in the reality that He loves my father even more than I do. And although I ached to be near my dad, the only way I felt like I could do that was through prayer, even from half a world away.

Our tour group eventually made its way over to what is historically known as the Western Wall or the Wailing Wall. Among the most intriguing tourist attractions in the Holy Land, it is located in the Old City of Jerusalem in the Jewish Quarter, at the foot of what Israel refers to as the Temple Mount. This area, a remnant of the foundation of the second temple from the time of Jesus, is considered the holiest site in Judaism, and the Wailing Wall itself draws multitudes who visit it to pray. With tremendous archeological and religious value, it is regarded as both a secular and sacred treasure that is frequented by tourists and residents alike. Those who come to the Wailing Wall frequently write prayer requests on slips of paper and place them deep in its cracks and crevices. Deeply venerated, portions of the wall are historic remnants of the timeworn barricade that once encircled the temple in ancient days. Thus, it has been the destination of spiritual wayfarers for centuries, captivating pilgrims as far back as the fourth century.

As intrigued as I was with the tour, after hearing the news about my dad, heaviness hung over my heart. It was cold, cloudy, and pouring down rain, and the line to get in trailed far from the entrance. We all huddled under umbrellas in small groups as close to one another as we possibly could while we waited patiently to get in. Although the wait was long, I was distracted. I wanted to talk to Daddy, hear his voice, and just know that he was going to be okay. The struggle to engage in all that was going on around me was brutal. Here I was visiting and studying in one of the most amazing places in the world—the ground where God, the person of Jesus Christ, literally walked and talked, raised the dead, and healed the sick—and all I could think about was my dad.

There were numerous armed guards at the security entrance to get into the Wailing Wall. In order to enter we had to walk through an area that looked very much like what you would see at a security checkpoint in major airports in the United States. All of our belongings were screened, and we each had to walk single file past an interrogation-type table where armed guards stood, each giving us a look that makes you feel guilty of something. It was actually quite scary. You could literally feel the tension and the war between two worlds—light and darkness—driven by the longstanding hatred between the Jews, Christians, and Muslims. The obvious apprehension and uneasiness that overshadowed our group’s countenance left no doubt that we were a bunch of American tourists.

Once we made it through security, we didn’t have a lot of time, so our guide explained the protocol to follow if we wanted to pray at the wall. Of course, you don’t go to the Wailing Wall and not pray. And on this particular day, I had one prayer on my mind and heart—one man who needed the healing that Jesus performed when He had walked where we were thousands of years prior to that very moment. It didn’t take me long to grab a pen and rip a piece of paper out of my journal and start writing.

There was great reverence near the wall. A permanent partition separated the wall down the middle where men were allowed to pray on one side and women on the other. With our prayers written down and folded up, my mother and I linked arms and made our way to the wall. I’ll never forget how I felt as I stood there almost stunned by the holiness of the moment. For the first few minutes I couldn’t help but watch the other women around me. Some were weeping. Some were standing on chairs reaching hands up to the wall to tuck small pieces of paper filled with words of prayer into crevices. Some swayed back and forth and side to side praying in a language I was not familiar with. Some were on their knees, facedown on the ground, literally wailing at the wall. I wondered what lay so heavy on their hearts and what they longed for God to do for them.

My mother and I were silent as we walked away from the wall and the prayers we had tucked into crevices there. Spoken words in the midst of such a deep and holy moment would have robbed us of what God was doing in our hearts. It was unforgettable. Eventually we talked and cried. We both had so much to unload. We shared about how thankful we were that God is not confined to the Wailing Wall.

As holy and amazing as it was to walk up to that wall, pray, and tuck a prayer into a little crevice that over the years has heard and seen countless prayers from people all over the world—as profound an experience as that is and was—God is greater still. He reaches into the deep places in our hearts where only He can go. He sees us wailing at the wall of our own choosing: the walls of fear, doubt, unforgiveness, religion, pride. Walls we build up in order to protect ourselves. Walls that ultimately confine and enslave us.

I knew that even though in that moment my dad and I were separated by a wall thousands of miles wide, so much greater than both of us, it was not greater than God and what He was going to do in the midst of our circumstances.

As soon as we were back in the United States, and I mean literally the moment we landed on American soil, both my mother’s phone and mine were inundated with voice messages, texts, tweets, and Facebook comments regarding Daddy’s health. It was all over social media, as well as local and national news. I was comforted by the sincere love and prayer support we were receiving, and at the same time it was heart-wrenching to hear the word “cancer” spoken in the same breath as my father’s name yet again.

But I was born a Kelly. And as I sat there, I realized that I could run from the waiting battle, or run to it—I had a choice to make. We all do. Sometimes it’s in the midst of the battle when we have to remember the victories we’ve already won, the people who stood by us along the way, and how we made it and triumphed despite the odds stacked against us. And sometimes the victory isn’t in the winning or the losing, but in the willingness to join the fight regardless of the odds, or the fear—because it’s the right thing to do. And in doing so, I’m convinced you come out victorious, even if you lose a few battles along the way.

Being Kelly Tough means you always do more than what’s expected of you. To go the extra mile when you’re exhausted. To give and keep giving when you feel like you can’t give anymore. To play through the pain, and go above and beyond—without being...