Tag Archives: Pensacola

Under the sea

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Although the sun is shining bright on the prairie today, the scene outside my picture window is a little more than fantasy of a beautiful day. The weatherman says the temperature outside feels like 30 below due to the windchill. Morning chores done, I sit wrapped in a blanket surrounded by the glow of candles for a hygge-like trip down memory lane. I need this journey because after reading the letter from the mom of the sweet courageous, selfless young lady who passed on the bus in North Dakota, I am clinging to God’s promises of showers of blessings even in the midst of great trial.

There will be showers of blessings. Ezekiel 34:26

Last August, I embarked on the most amazing trip with my son. In reality, I only spent one day with him because he was attending the National Flight Academy. For me, this trip was one of desiring to place my feet deep within the roots of my childhood, hoping to get tangled there for a while.

After spending a few days with my grandmother, I drove from Opelika to Pensacola to simply hang out with my parents for the rest of the week. I don’t know why, but it was the most magical time I have had in a long run. Truth be told, I haven’t had my parents to myself in forty-two years. I am nothing if not patient, but that was a long time to wait. It was worth it, because we had a blast!  (Although, I thought they were trying to kill me when they took this Southern-transplanted Minnesota girl to clean out their storage shed on a 110 degree day.)

My parents have just about everything they could want in terms of material goods; so, a few years ago, I started giving them gifts of trips and adventures. Before I arrived, my dad called and asked if I would want to go with them on one such adventure – a day of snorkeling and kayaking in the Gulf of Mexico. Would I? That was about like asking me if I wanted sweet tea to go with my meal.

I was so excited! A day on my beloved Emerald Coast with just my mom and dad where I didn’t have to worry about anything or anybody! I believe everyone has a place on earth that brings them great joy. Those white sand beaches (and my vegetable garden) are mine.

My happy place!

My happy place!

Driving over to the pier and settling onboard the vessel were fairly uneventful. Although, we did meet a lovely Minnesota born and raised server at the What-A-Burger for breakfast. This will not be much of a shocker but yours truly won a little game called, “Who travelled the farthest to be on our little excursion today!” The prize wasn’t much other than a little repartee with the ship’s captain who happened to hale from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. A free beverage would have been much more appreciated!

The trip to the man-made reef was a surprise all in itself as there were dolphins that escorted us along the way. They are absolutely the most amazing and entertaining hosts. We snorkeled for an hour or so until the tide came in. The fish were as diverse in their beauty as in their number. Even the moon jellies were captivating to watch float by!

Everything's better down where its wetter . . . under the sea.

Everything’s better down where its wetter . . . under the sea.

The last leg of our trip we journeyed over to the sound side of the island. We set anchor just mere yards away from my sweetie’s retirement village, where boaters anchor and have a floating city all day. Counting the days until that dream becomes a reality – especially on days like this one!

Where we hope to retire!

Where we hope to retire!

I will admit that on the way over there I was thinking they really should do this trip in reverse. The sound side is much less adventuresome than the gulf side. I could not have been more wrong in my thinking.

At this point, my mom had more than enough adventure; so it was just my dad and I exploring. I don’t know if it was the adventure part or true to her Southern roots she didn’t want to mess up her hair. (Sorry mom – it was a toss up!) My dad and I soon discovered there was just enough current that you could get in a good work-out without leaving your spot. Like cartoon characters who spin their “wheels” without going anywhere, here we were a mom and grandpa frolicking like we were Neptune’s children, uninhibited without a care in the world.

During that crazy moment was when I uncovered my greatest memento of the day. I reached down and found a complete shell (okay if I was going to get all science teacher on you, I would tell you it was an intact, minus its former inhabitant, bivalve shell). In all my years, I have never found one that still hinged and lined up perfectly like when it was someone’s home. I cradled that sweet treasure in my hands as I ran (I seriously did not care what I looked like) to my sweet mom’s shady spot on the banks of the sound.

At that moment, I wasn’t a forty-something momma and wife, I was transported back to the days of when I put flowers behind my ears for earrings and was the little mermaid I have always believed myself to be. Pure bliss washed over me as I showed her my discovery. It was truly one of my most magical moments!

Today, that little gem of the sea sits on my night stand to remind me of the day when my roots transported me back to a time I had long since forgotten. I might have gotten more tangled in seaweed and less in roots, but it was more than worth it. That tiny little shell is like an Ebenezer stone reminding that joy does come after the storm. Because even though, the Boy Wonder still had another surgery upcoming and the Girl Awesome is still healing, for one day I was simply God’s and my parents’  girl. That is not something to take lightly.  If not today, may someday soon will be one where a joy-filled moment finds you!

My version of the Ebenezer stone.

My version of the Ebenezer stone.

God is our refuge and strength,
    an ever-present help in trouble.
2 Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way
    and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea,
3 though its waters roar and foam
    and the mountains quake with their surging.[c]

Psalm 46: 1- 3 (NIV)

Music, like the sound of the waves lapping at the shore, always soothes my soul.  This song has brought me comfort in many tear-laden hours wrapped under that quilt.  If you are hurting today, may it bring you peace.

5 days: the most wacky time of the year

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I promise this blog is not about the ridiculously crazed people in line in the final countdown to Christmas. I could write a book about that insanity. Since I make many of my gifts, I always forget not everyone does, and I end up at the store for a jug of milk, flabbergasted by the ensuing chaos. In the past couple of days, I have been reminded of just how special family traditions are . . . even the whack-a-doodle ones.

My childhood Christmases were all pretty special. (Okay, not getting the one doll I wanted left quite an impression, but I think I’m getting over it.) Like most families, we had traditions which we typically recreated each year. Looking for the magic bell, eating sausage biscuit balls Christmas morning, visiting the miniature Christmas village in Pensacola, driving around looking at Christmas lights, and of course, enjoying dinners with families where my cousins and I always pretended the kids table was in France while the adults were back in plain ol’ Florida. All are times I cherish.

Of course, if I were completely honest, one of my favorite memories which did not become a tradition was the year my maternal grandmother, Nanny, started the neighbor’s house on fire. This wasn’t some kind of Hatfield and McCoy feud, although that would make for a much more interesting story. (Similar to my brother’s wedding when both my dad and I had stitches. On the sly, we created great cover stories of a Wild West style fight and a snake bite which were infinitely better than skin tag removal and the attic stairs dropping on your head.) Meanwhile back in my memories, the reason for the neighbor’s carport fire was a little known tradition of lighting fireworks on Christmas Eve. A little flash, boom, and pzzzzoom, followed by a very unlikely landing made for one remarkable evening. The Floridian hallmark was one we kept for a while; starting fires on other people’s homes was not a repeat event. For the record, the fire lasted only a minute and did not cause any serious damage to life or property. The part that made it so memorable was I had never seen my grandmother run – ever. Much like her dancing, her running was a sight to behold. Just writing this has caused the biggest smirk to appear on my face, and if she were still with us, she would be smirking too!

Another childhood tradition was just recently re-introduced to my own children. Last night we put up our trees. At some point, I began to wax nostalgic and blurted out, “This just isn’t right.” My loving and ever attentive family asked what had caused my dismay. (Okay, that didn’t really happen, but a girl can dream.) I eventually just kept on talking about how when I was a child we always, ALWAYS I tell you, listened to our favorite Christmas record when decorating the tree. Bing Crosby’s White Christmas, it was not. A little convincing on my part, but eventually we plopped in the “The Monster Christmas Mash” cd. It is okay you can say it. Monster Christmas Mash? What in the mayonnaise? The Boy Wonder just looked at me as if I had grown an extra head. He should never, I mean NEVER play poker, because “Mother, what in heaven’s name do monsters have to do with Christmas?” was written all over his face. The jazzy, blues, and funk style tunes did not do much to convince him or the Girl Awesome, neither did the great storyline of monsters learning the true meaning of Christmas (and I don’t mean the commercial one). At one point, they asked me if their grandparents were on drugs the day we purchased the LP at the Montgomery Ward’s. But thank goodness for the miracle of little girls, because Sally was singing along with me while simultaneously giggling at the thought of the Creep Castle chorus marching band AND dissection society.

tubes

I embrace my inner kookiness, but I am guessing others have completely weirdo traditions in their families as well. Monster Christmas may be unique to my family (as I am guessing even in the 70’s it was probably not a big seller.) But I equally certain that the other tradition we revisited Friday night is one in which many partake. We had the opportunity to give back in a most splendid way through the board that several Stevens sit on. At a local memory care facility, we created a shopping experience for residents so that they could shop for their families. Our group also had wrapping stations for the gifts. Truly a blessing to all of us present! Such a magical way to spend a Friday afternoon! I sincerely hope that we created a new tradition, but that isn’t exactly the one I was referring to earlier. We are big believers in leaving a place cleaner than when we arrived; thus, we picked up any mess we had made as the staff was preparing the table for supper. About the same time, the Boy Wonder’s eyes and mine fell upon a stack of the leftover gift wrapping tubes. A quick exchange of eyebrows told me he was thinking exactly what I was. Without much fanfare, we offered to take the cardboard tubes off their hands. The leader of our board, who also raised sons, knew precisely what we were up to. “You short a few swords at your house?” was spoken through a sheepish smile.

She gets us. She really gets us. The best part of wrapping presents is getting rid of the paper . . . off the roll so you can sneak up and whack your brother. Absolutely the best part!

Traditions are the fabric that makes families unique. Some are worth repeating, just as some are okay to let go. Others are even worth passing down through the generations. Monster Christmas Mash might not make it to another generation, but wrapping paper tube swords will definitely make the cut.

En garde, peeps! En garde!

The amazing ride

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Dear readers – I am so sorry my posts are infrequent these days. Our family is in the process of remodeling our upstairs. Serving as contractors and work crew between school, church, and work, our progress resembles the tortoise racing the hare – slow and steady. As usual, I have a few blogs that I have been pondering and feel I am ready to tell their stories. Just know that I miss sharing my world with you all. Kandy

Nostalgia, like a comfortable pair of old shoes, is both a gift and a burden I seem to be wearing often these days. Perhaps this sentiment stems from all the transition my family is experiencing: back-to-school, home remodel, and preparation for our son’s senior year of high school. I am fighting back tears as I type those last words. Oh my goodness, my once chubby-cheeked, curly-haired boy is ready to launch. My launch pad locked in old memories isn’t quite ready for the countdown from mission control. Memories, sweet memories, are present at every turn.

Add to all of this, Boy Wonder and I visited with my high school best friend on a recent trip to my childhood hometown. While we were downing chili slaw dogs at The Varsity in Atlanta, we laughed and giggled about our adventures while growing up in Pensacola. I believe Sawyer was amazed to hear I never picked a prom dress without M being present.   He was best friend, my best confidante, and a gentleman of great taste. I am so glad that God has allowed us to reconnect all these years later.

As I grow older (and thus so do my children), stark differences between our childhoods really stand out. This became more obvious as M and I swapped tales over the table. One of those dichotomous details was the prom experience. Back in the day, our prom was typically held at some posh location (country club or beach front hotel), and other than a few chaperones, our parents were nowhere to be found. Not so, for my son. The tradition at our children’s school is to bring bleachers around to the front door of the high school; so that every parent, grandparent, neighbor, friend, family, and school mate can gather around the red carpet (yes there really is one) to watch the young couples arrive for the prom. Remember these young people are the greatest product we produce, out here. Later everyone relocates to the bedecked and resplendent gymnasium to watch the couples promenade for the onlookers. The drive-up portion was utterly and completely foreign to me.

Talk about grand entrance! The pressure to be larger-than-life is palpable. There are classic cars, muscle cars, tractors (c’mon y’all it is rural Minnesota), and jacked up pick-up trucks. The first prom was an easier entrance because there are very few vehicles that Sawyer and Rachel’s special guest, Brayden, could utilize for “stylin’ wheels”. Trust me, full size RV made a statement, but their love for one of Reed’s friends was an even bigger statement.

For last spring’s gala, we were really perplexed as to how to make an entrance. (Listen: I am fully aware of this being a first world problem. So is my son. His solution was to wash and wax his dad’s pick-up and be fine with that.) That was the plan until an e-mail  changed the night.

A friend of ours pointed out a super cool car that was for sale on a local garage sale site. While I would have loved to have been able to purchase said car, it just wasn’t in the cards with the years we have saved to complete this remodel. Dream kitchen versus one night’s ride! Clearly, the kitchen won out. But I have learned that if there is something you desire, you simply garner the courage to ask. The worst that can happen is for you to be told no.

“Be brave! Be bold!” became my motto as I sent a message to the owner of the car (oh which happens to be a classic Corvette). Then I waited. And waited. And waited. Then one day, as I was walking into a spring AAU basketball tournament, I got the call I hoped for, but had no guarantees I would receive. Let me tell you what transpired next left me astounded!

My wait was due to the fact that the gentle spirit and owner of the car, J, had a hard time getting a hold of me. In my original message, I explained who our family is and about how we knew mutual friends. I explained Sawyer’s story, and I also stressed how safe a driver he is because of all he has gone through. My concerns were halted when J said, “You are never going to believe this”. His “unbelievable” story was his rig (as a semi driver) was one of the first to come across the crash that changed our lives forever. He had always wanted to do something for our family, and imagine his shock when he received my request, crazy as it was!

Yes, friends, it takes a special kind of crazy bold, to send a message to a stranger asking, “Hey! Could my 17-year-old son borrow your classic ‘Vette to go the prom?” Proudly, I am that kind of eccentric.

Almost without taking a breath, but yet taking a break from being choked up, J explained that not only would the Boy Wonder be able to drive his car to the prom,  but also he could drive it for the week to get the feel for driving it. J was going to add him to his personal insurance if needed and have it taken in to get a tune up. His only request in return was for my boy to have a good time and send him a few pics.

His words were met with stunned silence as the tears ran down my face and the lump formed in my throat. I am not too proud to tell you I bawled outside that gymnasium, to which I tell you there were more than a few barbed looks tossed my way along the lines of “Lady, it is just a basketball game.”   Normally barbs of such insensitivity would sting. Not today, my friends. Not today! My heart soared because Sawyer is tough to surprise, but more so, the kindness of strangers is awe-inspiring.

Our clandestine rendezvous to procure the dreamy wheels went without a hitch as did the lesson on how to remove and store the T-tops. The twenty mile drive back to our house gave me a chance to live out a high school fantasy as I drove through the countryside, turning heads. This ride was a far cry from the Dodge Omni I drove my junior year. His face was absolutely priceless when his sisters (who were in on the secret) brought him outside. He couldn’t believe someone would do something this kind for him. My boy, almost a man, was genuinely humbled. He couldn’t believe it!

I have been asked many times if I railed at God during our darkest hour. I am no saint, definitely far from perfect, but I can honestly answer that I never did. Questioning how long this pain would endure happened, but anger never came. From dear friends who were with us moments after to new friends (angels on earth) who make the junior prom a night to remember, there have been constant reminders of God’s love every step of the way. So maybe some of that nostalgia I’ve been feeling is a gentle reminder that God has been present in every leg of my life’s journey, including the steps that led me to one sweet ride.

Photo by LSM photography.

Photo by LSM photography.

I had to throw in a couple more photos just to highlight the fact that the Boy Wonder doesn’t always squint in pictures.  The sun was really shining that beautiful sunny day. LSM_4025   LSM_4031

The blind date

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There is a catchy country song that came out a few years ago that ends with the line, “Thank God for good directions and turnip greens.” The cute song tells how a boy, selling turnip greens on the side of the road, steers a beautiful, yet lost, young lady back to the interstate and some good sweet tea (of course, you know I would like that part of the song). Once the young lady gets there, the purveyor of that intoxicatingly sweet beverage is the boy’s momma who steers the young lady right back to the boy in the truck.

And my favorite part is implied.

HAPPILY. EVER. AFTER.

Since today is Valentine’s Day, you might think that this blog is all about me and my sweetie. It isn’t. Okay, maybe a small piece.

As today’s title infers, we did indeed meet on a blind date. Only it wasn’t all things quintessentially Southern like turnip greens and sweet tea that brought us together. Nope it was much more academic than that. And I do mean academic – think Calculus and Chemistry. Two of our professors – mathematics and science – thought we would make a good couple, and they were right. From our first date, we both just somehow knew we would be together. We had the stuff that added up to the right chemistry. (I couldn’t resist a silly pun.) The motto of our alma mater, Mayville State, is “The School of Personal Service”. I have joked for years; it doesn’t get much more personal than picking out your husband for you.

Even through all the ups and downs (and trust me, we’ve had plenty), no one can make me laugh like he can, nor surprise me like he does. At the end of the day, there is no one whom I would rather spend all of my days.

So even though, I love my sweetie, today’s blog is actually dedicated to a woman that I don’t even know.

Somewhere out there in the world is a girl – probably now a grandma – who missed out on an opportunity. That opportunity was a blind date with a Navy boy. Well, if my understood version of the story is correct, he was an Alabama boy, college graduate, and Naval officer stationed at Pensacola Naval Air Station. All things dreamy back in the day. Well, maybe not the Alabama part to Florida girls.

The girl I want to thank was supposed to go as the escort – on a blind date with this Navy boy – as a favor to her friend who was dating another Navy Officer. For those of you not familiar with living in a Navy town, this sort of thing happens all the time. Many a relationship have started with service men or women meeting local people. Pensacola is no exception.

Well, except for this day. The woman I do not know – not even her name – got cold feet, leaving her friend in quite a perplexed situation. I mean really – not having a double date for going out with your sweetie could be quite devastating news! I like to think of her looking something like this after her friend’s refusal to even entertain the thought of going on this date.

photo found at beatlesnumber9.com

photo found at beatlesnumber9.com

Not to be known in this story as one without resources, the now only female member of a rather odd three person date decided to beat the path of her co-workers to see if anyone would help her out of this ridiculous predicament.

Lo and behold – there was a willing soul found in the workplace washroom! This unsuspecting local girl who worked at the library of the university was pounced upon by Miss Debbie Desperate in the bathroom.

“Hey! Would you be interested in going on a double date with my boyfriend’s friend tonight? They are both in the Navy.” That last tidbit could possibly seal the deal . . . or break it, depending on how you look at it. A casual conversation that took place over the porcelain sinks with the reflective images of the two girls watching and listening earnestly.

The replacement girl’s answer was something rather romantic and dreamy like, “Um. Sure. Why not! I’m not busy.”

Cue the super hero music because replacement girl just saved the day!

Turns out in the stories of happily ever after, that good fortune of needing the potty at that time and having an adventuresome spirit was a good thing.

Tomorrow, replacement girl and Navy boy will celebrate three kids, eight grandkids they’ve met, three they will meet in heaven, and forty-five years of marriage together!

So today, I am thanking God for cold feet and blind dates!

Note: The events of this story took place in November 1968. Since I wasn’t born (as the first of those three kids) until November 1969, I might not have all of the details exactly accurate. That, and I might be known for having a little bit of a flair for embellishment.

My Mom & Dad. And no! They do not normally pose in front of racy art auction paintings.

My Mom & Dad. And no! They do not normally pose in front of racy art auction paintings.

Happy 45th Anniversary to my mom (replacement girl) and to my dad (Navy boy)! Love you both!

And for the record, I adore happy endings!

What I want today . . .

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Reed70

Last year for my dad’s birthday, we bought tickets to a baseball game for the local boys of summer, Pensacola’s very own – Blue Wahoos.  After a much enjoyed Whataburger and sweet tea (of course) lunch, we headed on down to the stadium – sunscreen in hand.  It was my first Wahoos game at a stadium right on Pensacola Bay.  As we were approaching our section, we noticed two ladies hop up from some seats and two gentlemen in what appeared to be our seats.  After a recheck with the ushers, the ladies that had left and the gentlemen now seated were, in fact, in our seats.  They apologized and moved one section over.  All was great until the ladies (and at this point, I use that term loosely) came back.  One of them announced (well, more like hollered), “You are in OUR seats.”  I politely answered that in fact these were our seats.  I tried to further explain, but was cut off by a woman with her face in mine yelling that she had paid good money for these seats.  I stood up and showed her my tickets as the usher stepped in stopping my mother from bopping her in the head.  The usher showed the two where their husbands were sitting and that they had sat in the wrong section in the first place.  Strangely,  no apologies were uttered.

Sadly, I get her frustration.  She wanted to watch a baseball game on Sunday afternoon, and she was proud of her seats.  I get it.  Did I like being yelled at? Nope.  But in the end, we all got what we came for that day.

Right now, I am feeling a giant passel of wants.  Today, my son, my beloved red-headed boy, should be graduating from high school.  But that isn’t going to happen, because he and three sweet other babes were killed when someone made a choice five years ago.  I knew this day would come, and I am trying to hold it together with the best grace that I can muster.

Here is a current list of my wants –

  • I want to tell everyone that my son is attending Yale. (The university he vowed in 6th grade he would attend.)
  • I want to be going crazy, cleaning and shopping and preparing, for a graduation party.
  • I want my eyes to stop hurting from the tears I have cried this week.
  • I want the pounding in my chest to stop hurting.
  • I want my thoughts to be clear, not insulating me from the pain that is going to come.
  • I want to remind a certain few that I am not apologizing for my emotions. There is and forever will be only one momma to Reed.
  • I want to hug my son today – not just see a gown on a chair where he should be.
  • Lastly and more importantly, I want to tell him just one more time how proud I am of him.

But just like those seats at the stadium, what we want and what we get are often two very different things.  So in the last couple weeks, I have clung – tightly- to the One who has collected each tear of mine in His bottle.   I asked Him to show me where He was in the midst of all of this.  It seems every salinated drop has provided spiritual vision that has opened the eyes to my soul.  In all honesty, my provisions have been great and had I blinked I might have missed:

  • The well wishing to another mom who is doing the crazy planning before I had a chance to feel sorry for myself.
  • The hugs from fellow moms of graduates who have sought me out when I needed them the most.
  • A mailbox flooded with invitations from Reed’s friends for their parties because those tender hearts want us to know we are loved.
  • The mom who held me when I sobbed on the front steps of the church on Sunday.
  • The friend almost a thousand miles away who has texted or called every day – just make sure that I am doing okay.
  • The friends who upon hearing my joke about taking up excessive drinking offered to do so with me – just so they could hear me laugh.
  • A midnight ice cream run with a friend because that can solve most of life’s problems.
  • The mom who gave me a pep talk in the Wal-mart parking lot telling me that each of the graduates who knew Reed well was going to change the world because his presence changed the world.
  • The friends that offered to sit with me at graduation to just to hold my hand and pass me Kleenex.
  • The church that called and asked for me to come and speak this weekend, numbing the empty void of no celebration, but more importantly, reminding me of what He has planned for my life and Reed’s story
  • An e-mail extraordinaire that gave me the strength to get out of bed today.
  • Continuing on in traditions – oh yeah – McDonald’s for breakfast on the last day of school.  We have to go on – even when it hurts.
  • A cell phone battery almost dead before 8:00 am filled with texts of love.

Even though the items on my first list hurt with an ache that I didn’t know was humanly possible, I look at that second list and I can feel God’s touch.  I hear His whisper of love and mercy.  I know that He will be there with His bottle collecting my tears, wiping away each one.  So that one day when I am reunited with Reed and I meet God in person, we are going to walk hand-in-hand to empty that bottle right on into the ocean.

Then I will stand before my Father with hands raised high – praising him for each and every sweet provision, including the chance to be Reed’s momma.   After that, I am going to hug the mess out of my boy!

This song says it all . . .

Just the other night at the hometown football game . . . the last Reed’s Run

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lakeview football

The Garth Brooks song, “Unanswered Prayers” has always been a perennial favorite of mine.  It didn’t hit me until the night before the last Reed’s Run that I was living out a line of the song at a Lakeview football game.  Different from the lyrics, it wasn’t a long-lost love with whom I reconnected that evening.  I am sure if anyone paid attention to what happened on the sidelines, there would have been rumors flying in the small towns that night.

It really all unfolded much earlier.  About two years ago, I found my high school best friend on the internet.  We connected very briefly through an email and later on Facebook.  Then one day, I started noticing all the posts of remembrance.  I knew my friend Matt had only one son (and several stepchildren).  I literally shook as my hands did a quick Google search.  When my husband found me crumpled on the floor sobbing a little while later, he knew something was terribly wrong.  My worst fears regarding those messages were confirmed when I found the obituary of one sweet, Big A.

I cried.  I felt crushed in spirit.  “Oh, dear Lord, NO!” I cried out over and over. How could this be?  Why was this cup not passed from not only my son, but my friend’s son as well?  I just didn’t understand.

I wanted our bond to be shared memories of the past – the glory years so to say – but not THIS!  Not a shared bond of grief and loss and of despair and heartbreak.

I did the only thing I could. I reached out electronically and shared about Reed.  In the end, I told of Reed’s Run and asked if we could remember Alex at our final run.  I was expecting an affirmative response because I know that lingering fear (of no one remembering their child) all grieving parents share.  What I didn’t expect was the news that my high school best buddy and his wife were going to come and run the last run.

Back to that football game. When I received the text message that they had arrived, I bolted out of my seat to greet them.  I ran and literally jumped into Matthew’s arms. What I haven’t shared previously is we hadn’t seen each other in twenty-three years.  It was a wonderful (and long over-due) embrace.

My heart leapt with joy at finally being in arms reach of him, and my heart soared to finally meet his beautiful bride.  We watched the game and cheered on one number 74.  Since 74’s fan section was huge, we had three cars in convoy on the way home.  I rode with Matt & Kimberly, and we shared the stories of our boys.

Sadly, neither of us ever had the opportunity to meet the other’s child.  Back at home, we sat in the rental car, talked and cried, and cried and talked.  With each story they told of one amazing young man, I began to feel like I was being handed the equivalent of a newborn baby swaddled in love and care of sweet memories.

In high school our heartstrings were tied as two kids who loved to laugh and who loved a good adventure, especially in historic Pensacola.  But now on a crisp Minnesota fall night, we were inexplicably bound by the loss that no parents should ever have to feel.

However it wasn’t unanswered prayers like that old song, it was the unshakeable faith of two dear friends that our children’s deaths were not in vain.  It was the prayers that we prayed during their lives that sustained us in their deaths.  It was the same faith that compels both families to give back in the way that would be most honoring to each boy.

But the biggest bond each family shared was the sustaining power of prayer, amazing love, and extravagant grace that over the years and across the miles both of us were held right in the palm of God’s hand.  It is the confidence of knowing that neither family said good-bye, because someday I am going to get to meet that sweet boy and Matthew’s going to meet mine.

Raised on PBS and Little Debbie . . . Part 3

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A 4 year old me & Mr. McFeely

A 4 year old me & Mr. McFeely

As much as I love Sesame Street, it wasn’t the only program that I enjoyed on public television.  Another favorite was Mr. Rogers Neighborhood.  Whenever I see a trolley or a pair of navy blue Keds, I am transported back to being 4 years old and soaking up every minute of his show.

There were several aspects of Fred Rogers show (and life) that were just plain magical to me.  I adored how he focused right on the kids at home when he shook off the burdens of the outside world while changing into his beloved cardigan and sneakers.   The feeling that he was excited to be home to see me is a lesson that I have never forgotten. Of course, that routine wouldn’t have been complete without feeding the fish in the aquarium. A simple act of love reinforced by repetition.

I think my love of documentaries was forged while watching MRN, because I am still riveted by the episodes where he took us to the factories that made toilet paper and crayons.  Seeing how something was made, really helped me to look at the world in a different way. In my grown-up hometown, we actually have a company named SpeeDee Delivery, and every time I see one of their trucks, I think of Mr. McFeely (more on him later) and smile.

Yet it was when he sat by the bench seat next to Trolley’s tracks that I loved the most.  Even today in my forties, I sincerely wish I could travel on Trolley to the Neighborhood of Make-Believe.  As long as I can remember I have had a wonderful imagination, inspired by Mr. Rogers and nurtured by my parents.  My imagination has been one of my very best friends, keeping me busy on many adventures throughout my life, and Mr. Rogers had a whole world of make believe.

In the land of Make-Believe, I developed deep fondness for several characters, but I must admit, I wasn’t all that crazy about Lady Elaine.  As a true Southern girl, I always wondered who did her make-up, and I knew I didn’t want to grow up to be a schemer like her.  Daniel Tiger just made me smile, and I always wished he would learn to be bold.  Henrietta had a “paws-tively” charming effect of slipping “Meow” into just about every sentence.  But my true love was X the Owl.  His love of inventions and Ben Franklin, in particular, were right up this future science and math teacher’s alley.  Everything X did was exciting to this little budding scientist.

In my childhood hometown of Pensacola, a few years ago the PBS station was celebrating 40 years of broadcasting.  I was asked (because my mom had connections) to come and be a part of a panel of speakers regarding how much that station had shaped our lives.  (Life circumstances didn’t work out; so, I didn’t get to attend.)  If I had, I would have shared some of the stories I am sharing in this series, along with this little nugget of trivia.  Almost 40 years ago, I had a brush with my favorite mailman and another friend from MRN, Purple Panda.  They came to Pensacola, and I had the opportunity to meet them and interact with them.  I think I might have even been featured in the News-Journal as a photo all those years ago.

What I remember from that day was how incredibly kind the characters were.  How could they not be?  They were a part of show created by one of the most loving, creative, and generous men to ever live.  A few years back, I read an article written by a reporter who had a friendship with Fred Rogers.  In the article the man shared how Mr. Rogers probably saved his life.  It was through the genuine interest and care given by Mr. Rogers that the author realized that he was of value, thus saving him from a life-ending choice.  The author shared that Mr. Rogers often ended his correspondence with four letters: IPOY.  After many years of curiosity, he finally mustered the courage to ask what the four letters meant.  The message was simple: I’m Proud Of You.

If I had been able to speak on the influence of PBS in my life, I would have shared how educational programming fostered my lifelong love of learning.  I would have told how I was encouraged to dream, to create, and to use my imagination.  Now, all these years later, I was utilizing those skills as a teacher and a mom to do the same for another generation of children.

And in my heart, I believe that if I had ever gotten to meet him in person, Mr. Rogers would have penned an “IPOY” note to me, as well.