Steve's Buddy Marvin

The Priceless Gift of Marvin 

It’s hard to remember exactly when Marvin* melded in to our family becoming one of us. Steve met him when he was a student in his p.e. class in the early 2000s. Marvin was adopted when he was three years old out of an orphanage in Costa Rica. He had an intellectual disability which limited him in our culture’s eyes, but from our point of view now, he had no disability. He was relationally gifted with an amazing ability to live life whole heartedly. This was his normal.

Marvin Keir 1987-2020

Steve has always been naturally drawn to those in the margins. He has the spiritual gift of authentically loving those for whom most of us have very little time. Little kids, older people, and those with special needs draw him in like a magnet. Marvin, and a few of his friends at Liberty High School were no exception. Steve started telling me about a kid named Marvin in his p.e. class that was all heart. While the more athletic students moaned and groaned slogging laps around the track, Marvin gave his all with a smile on his face. He was slow, but he never cut it short and he never complained. Steve was impressed with Marvin's attitude.

Steve’s relationship with Marvin grew quickly and he started bringing Marvin and friends home after school to play basketball, eat snacks and sometimes swim [one of Marvin’s favorite memories to recount again and again was the time he pushed Cabalka in the pool]. I have to confess, I wasn’t always happy to see the carload pull in the driveway, after all I had my task list waiting for Steve. But seeing their faces lit up like Christmas, hearing giggles and unending banter usually won me over pretty quickly. How can you not melt when a car full of young guys are thrilled to be at your house? All it took was a few graham crackers and lemonade along with a basketball and a friend who welcomed them in his heart to make them feel like they’d won the lottery.  And that list? It means nothing now. Eventually, Marvin came alone more and became Steve’s shadow. Their deep affection for one another was palatable. 

Marvin and his best friend, Markie, became the managers of Steve’s soccer team. They’d chase balls, haul water, and stick as close to the coach as possible. Marvin’s favorite spot was within six inches of his buddy Steve. “Hey buddy. We’re buddies huh Cabalka?” would be repeated over and over with Steve teasing back “we’re not buddies! Don’t call me buddy.” To which Marvin would grin and say, “Ya, we’re buddies.” Steve would break out a smile and say, “you’re right, we’re buddies.”  At the end of one soccer season the parents pitched in and bought Marvin and Mark letter jackets. Pride in it’s purest form radiated from them with their jackets on!

Marvin became Steve’s T.A. in his health classes. I wonder what the ‘normal' students thought at first. Steve tells me they loved Marvin. I can’t help but think their love for Marvin was fueled by Steve’s own. Love and acceptance are contagious aren’t they? Marvin would call roll and handout papers and get so excited to sit behind Cabalka’s desk to monitor the class from time to time.

Do you ever stop and ask, “what is normal?” I’m going to share more Marvin stories in the future. But, for now I am sadly aware of how much we will miss our Marvin, and how I wish we could learn more from Marvin’s normal. The other day Steve said, “I want to be more like Marvin,” and I knew exactly what he meant. You’ve probably heard the phrase about how people won’t remember what you taught them, but they will remember how you made them feel. Marvin made you feel like you were the most important person on the planet. That was his normal. A different normal than mine. That was one of his many gifts. Marvin and Steve's friendship transformed our family and we are all richer for it. 

*Marvin passed away of cancer on February 26. He was 32 years old. Steve spent the last weekend of Marvin’s young life at his bedside retelling stories (and, of course, listening to FREE BIRD:) Marvin and Steve either texted or talked on the phone at least 5/7 days of the week. He leaves a big void in our world. We’re very sad, and incredibly grateful for all he brought to our lives.