Yoga Lady

There was a time when Kernie and I did yoga regularly at the local LA Fitness. We lost our favorite yoga teacher and never matched up with a new one; Covid took care of that. Our favorite yoga teacher was a picture: “Get your yoga butts on the mat ya’ll, we are starting.” An athletic blond woman with dreadlocks to her mid back led the class in lycra outfits. Her southern accent was disarming and she had an easy going manner, telling anecdotal stories about her family as she cruised the mats, giving advice on the positions held. She gave reports on the family weekend, usually a trip by motorcycle to rural destinations in the Cascades or Olympics.

Off the mats and at home, it became clear that she had made an impression as we commonly talked about a story or experience flowing from her classes. She made a positive impact on us.

One spring, she made an appeal at the end of class: “I am hoping someone in the class may be able to help me. My husband has retired from the army and we have all our possessions boxed up and ready to go home in Alabama. Our daughter graduates from High school at the end of June and we are no longer able to live in our rental on base; does anyone know where we can live for a couple weeks as our stuff is moved out and we are waiting for graduation night?”

A week later, after class, she let us know that someone had offered a barn for her to use. Hearing this, we offered up the space over our garage: a mother-in-law-apartment.

She said she would think about it. That seemed odd, but then again, she had not seen it yet.

A few days later, she mentioned that her husband had a motorcycle and he wondered if it could be garaged. That seemed odd. It turned out, we had plenty of room in our garage for a motorcycle.

The deal was made and we came to expect them in mid June. I came home from work and found a motorcycle and her Nissan parked in front of the garage. The motorcycle was all black with the Ace of Spades symbol painted on the gas tank. It was “chromed out.” It was fancy. It was a Harley low-rider.  It was in “mint” condition.

Not so, the rider. I had learned that our Southern Belle’s husband was career army/enlisted. He was in special forces. I thought he had just retired so I was more than surprised on introduction to meet a man in leathers, with visible tattoos, an earring, and rings fashioned to look like skulls on his fingers. His hair while not extremely long, was not regulation.

As the week went by, I never saw him; he stayed up in the apartment while his wife occasionally checked in as she went to work and updated us on their plans. She confided that her husband had PTSD from his military experience and was self isolating. This raised a caution when Tres, our grandson then in elementary school climbed the stairs to the apartment looking for a toy. He met our guest with no obvious problem—he was surprised to find him there. The wife later said it would be better if Tres did not visit unannounced which seemed quite correct to us. With just a little time more, one weekend, we two couples went for a walk together.

I learned on the walk that he had been in special forces; he saw action in the Middle East among other places. At ten years, he took a break and went to a theological school. On completion, he returned to his original unit where he served as a chaplain. His was of an evangelical background and this was food for discussion as this was, for me, a very unusual background. I found that I liked him and what he said. He did not proselytize, and like the author of book, The Reason for God, Timothy Keller, he had a worldly sense of how things went. He was not judgmental, and was thoughtful in his responses.  Wrong in the name of Christianity? He owned it but allowed that the wrong part was a human trait shared with plenty of non-Christians. In fact, those Christians who did harm to others because they had power were not true Christians. We talked of other Faiths and he was respectful.

We did not speak specifically of his war experiences, my belief is that it is for the veteran to bring up and one should not try to draw it out.  The man I saw was quiet, respectful, and clearly had experienced a lot during his time in the service. As I observed and spoke with him, I realized he had a standard behavior on our walk; about every minute or so, he would pause and look around three hundred and sixty degrees. I asked why he did that and got, “just habit” as a response.

We bonded and he was pleasantly surprised that I could converse about the writing of CS Lewis, one of his favorite authors. He gave me a copy of The Reason for God and inscribed the following:

 Randy, I have read this book every year since its publication and can’t wait to read it again. May you find it as awesome and thought provoking…..Psalm 16:11.

Psalm 16:11 states, “You make known to me the path of life; in your presence there is fullness of joy; at your right hand are pleasures forevermore.”

While he remained mostly isolated upstairs, we managed a few conversations which led to his concern that I had never really tried Irish Whiskey. I came home after a long week of work on a Friday and he presented me with a gift: he had driven the motorcycle to the West Side of Olympia and purchased me a bottle of 14 year old Tullamore Dew whiskey. The spring night was long in coming and we sat overlooking the lake drinking and talking. It was a very good talk but not well-remembered. I was astounded by centered and reasonable he seemed, and how smooth this liquor was. By 9:00 PM we realized that between us we had drunk two-thirds of the bottle.

Good times.

Their daughter graduated from High School a week later and they dressed up for the occasion. The yoga mom despite coming from the South, wore very Olympia-centric clothing, cotton prints with a long skirt. She was lovely. Dad remained in some version of leathers. They came home ebullient; it was clear they were transitioning into a new stage of life. I believe their daughter had received an award during graduation. She was by briefly and then off with friends. Once she left, our guests let themselves relax. As we stood around the kitchen island talking, they both pulled out loaded pistols and put them on the counter. This was done casually, as though an every day occurrence that might occur anywhere.

Kernie and I were astounded and then learned that they had many weapons and never went anywhere without them: our walks, drinking whiskey, saying hello to Tres, and for all I know, yoga….Appreciating their background from the South, and his military background, I could find reasons for this but remain appalled at the assumption made about presenting us with this scene in this manner. We felt betrayed. They did not know their audience. Despite our warm feelings for the couple, this demonstration seemed forced not to mention odd—a sort of introduction which felt like an imposition when in fact we barely knew each other. I can’t say that either of us felt any safer…… I would have so much rather they never told us about this part of their lives than put it out there as they did.

Had they done that before they came, we likely would not have offered up our home.

I have read The Reason for God twice since they left, and that is as close to them as we have been over the following years.

Crossing cultures is hard!