Wanda Karen Cooper

Karen’s Ministry

 Child bearing labor lasted two full days.  The new baby girl’s struggle for life was about over.  Her struggles of life were just beginning.  Mom barely escaped with her own life as she delivered her fifth and final child—Wanda Karen Cooper.  Karen, as we called her, had been named for years.  And now defying time and medical odds she was born.  Dad was four years into his final pastorate—with 31 faithful years to go.   It was April 16, 1965.

 The newlyweds, Charles and Maude Cooper moved from Tennessee to Michigan in 1948.  They were blessed with four children—a daughter and three sons.  Then there were five.  Karen was born with brain damage and a hole in her heart.  Days of round the clock prayer gave way to her release from the hospital—normal—healed—no human surgery.  Life for Karen would be smooth sailing for 26 months, time enough for us to fall deeply in love with her doll face, eyes of blue and golden hair.

 The doctor said the culprit was a mosquito.  I just remember the early morning ruckus.  I recall her rhythmic cries amidst the rest of the family’s hysteria.  It was her first seizure.  She stopped breathing.  Resuscitation films seen in high school were fresh in my 16-year-old mind.  I breathed into her lifeless body.  Her 26-month reprieve from the struggles of life had ended.  Encephalitis sent her into a deep coma.  Nurses strapped her to a hospital bed.  Tubes and needles kept her alive.  The doctor said she wouldn’t live.

 Again, people prayed—around the clock.  Blanche Maynard, a registered nurse and family friend, volunteered to stay with Karen while her weary family attempted to rest.  And, the church’s prayer chain continued.  Blanche said it was early the second morning when her bonds broke and Karen suddenly sat up.  She was hungry.  She was healed—again—or so it seemed.  For some reason this happy healthy family now had a little girl that was given a cross we would all try to help her bear for the next 36 years.  Karen’s hearing was impaired and her seizures permanent. 

 Ours was a singing family.  In the early days it was mom and dad singing for Jesus.  I was the first child, then Joan—a quartet.  Greg and Curt came along.  Each child learned to sing—some played musical instruments.  Then there was Karen. We were all given various talents.  Karen was given the gift of helping—and bossing.  Karen’s hearing impairment hindered her from singing well—but there was one song she insisted on giving a go.  Dad played the guitar and Karen gave it her best.  The song?  “He Touched Me and Now I Am No Longer The Same.”  Her greatest touch from God came at age 13 at a church youth camp.  It was there she received Jesus into her longing heart.

 In time we all grew up.  We all married—except Karen. We all had children—except Karen.  Karen had seizures.  And no one loved babies like Karen.  The best of doctors were called.  Every medicine was tried.  Nothing cured those relentless convulsions.  Karen never got a drivers license—but she always wanted one.  Nieces and nephews came along and grew up before Karen’s eyes.  For them there were cars and trucks—for Karen there were those dreadful seizures.

 Karen’s life was limited, but she did what she could.  She was destined to stay at home with mom and dad.  And, quite frankly she was a matchless treasure to them in their golden years.  When they moved back to their roots in Tennessee she was right there with them.  It was a big adjustment for her, but adjusting to challenges was the sum of her life.  She watched from the sidelines as friends and family lived their lives and she adjusted to every new and challenging disappointment—with minimal complaint.  The home our parents built in Tennessee was proudly claimed by Karen as “her house.”  She was proud and possessive of her house, her family, her church, but she didn’t possess a car!  In looking back she was a pilgrim and a stranger—she was just passing through.  But she would have me tell you; she was passing through without a car.

 The dream to plant a church along Highway 111 in Cookeville, Tennessee was finally realized in September of 2003 for my family and a group of dedicated Christian friends.  I am blessed to be the pastor—a pastor Karen was particularly proud of.  Her impaired hearing affected the way she pronounced some words and definitely hindered her perception of good preaching.  Bro. Jack Williams (editor of Contact magazine) preached at a pastor appreciation service prior to Karen’s death.  She told him, “You did a good job, but not as good as my brudder.” 

 Emergency calls to “Karen’s” house fifteen miles from mine had happened before.  One time in particular, Karen was missing and darkness falling.  She was found by the County police on someones doorstep selling candles to raise funds for her new church.  But, the big call came Saturday morning March 27, 2004.  My sister, Joan, was frantic at the other end of the line, “Roger, Karen is dead we need your help.”

 For two weeks prior, Karen had apparently been having premonitions that her struggles here would soon be ending.  She had questions about death.  She didn’t want to leave her friends, her fellowship and her family.  When I got to her bedside, I found her lifeless body face-down in her pillow.  A seizure had claimed her somewhere in the night—her worries were over.   Life that began with a struggle ended as it began.

 Just the day before, Karen had mom drive her to a nearby neighborhood where she spent the last evening of this life distributing pamphlets and inviting everyone to her new church.   This little girl had lived a life of giving and giving-in to struggles she could not control.   Most all of her wishes had been denied her all of her near 39 years.  Resolving that she had little or no control over her own affairs, she sought to control others—with frequent success.  So, when she “invited” people to her church, if they said they already had a church home she simply informed them, “you must come to my church, it is the best.”  Often she insisted on helping the greeters at the church door give guests a visitor’s card—and seeing that they filled them out.   She was doing what she could.   Greeting people was her gift at church and at home.  

 Karen left behind, for our parents, a register with the names of every person that had visited their Tennessee home—and there were many.  She insisted on guests signing the book, and in most cases took their photograph.

 Two weeks before her death while purchasing a get-well card for a friend, she invited the storekeeper, Brenda, to come to her church. Brenda said she would come. When Sunday came and her guest had not arrived, back went Karen to the card store insisting that Brenda come to her church.  Again, the promise was made.  But when Sunday came, it was the little insistent greeter that wouldn’t be there.   It was Sunday March 28, 2004. 

 I had gone to the podium too emotional to converse with anyone.   I sat there waiting for the service to begin hoping well-wishers would stay away till the service had ended.  And then, I saw Joan coming up the side isle with a lady I hadn’t seen there before.  Greetings were exchanged.  Tears flowed.  It was Brenda.

 When we reach new people at One-Eleven Fellowship, I think of it as “Karen’s Ministry.”  Her cross has fallen—a crown is imminent—so much for the struggle—her labor has ended—her work continues.  “She hath done what she could….” Mark 14:8.

 With Divine intervention, on Tuesday I officiated Karen’s funeral—she would have insisted.  Numerous friends and family gathered from several States to listen as my heart overflowed.  Singers sang “He Touched Me,” and “I Wonder What They’re Doing in Heaven Today?”  To answer the musical question—I have a speculative theory as to what my little sister is doing.

 Three elderly men from our fellowship have since left for Heaven:  the first 111 Fellowship song director—Bro. Grover Miller, my father-in-law—Bro. Columbus Mullins, and Bro. Clyde Honeycutt.  I would like to suppose they each were welcomed by—my little sister—our little greeter—promoted—Wanda Karen Cooper.  When you get there, you can’t miss her.  She’ll be the one near the gate standing by a fiery chariot—camera in hand—saying “Get in here, and sign this book.”   Forgive my speculating.

           Pastor Roger Cooper

Karen Her name was Wanda Karen. We called her Karen.

At Okolona Karen standing on the porch of the Okolona Church. She was laid to rest a few years later in that church's cemetery.

Karen and her brother Karen is pictured with her brother, Pastor Roger Cooper in front of Knight's Chapel where he pastored at the time.