Keeping the lines open

How many of you remember the excitement of the phone ringing in your home? Running to answer it, not knowing who it was. Grandma? Grandpa? A boyfriend? Good news? Bad news? Whatever the news, a phone call meant something.

My dad and I had a very special relationship that continued into adulthood; he and my stepmom, Sheila, kept me grounded and sane through so many storms. So it was only natural they became my sounding boards and my shoulders to cry on...for anything. That was great of course unless I was too busy; Dad used to get after  me constantly to call him more often. I’d roll my eyes and think,  C'mon already does he think I don’t have my own life? He and Sheila are busy and have David and they work.  Why does he want to hear about my life all the time? I write letters. I send photos of the grandkids and our house. What more does he want? It’s expensive to call so often!

(OK, for you kids born after 1985: Before there were cellular phones, there was this thing called "long distance."  The phone company charged by the minute depending on distance from the caller. That is why there are area codes—those three numbers at the beginning of your phone number. Even after the introduction of cell phones, you had to be using the same carrier to be able to call for free, but it was only free during certain times). 

Ok. Moving on. 

Being the good daughter, and honestly out of excuses for not calling, I finally gave in and started calling him, infrequently at first,  but eventually we decided to call on a set day at a set time: Sundays at eight p.m. For over forty years I called him like clockwork, sometimes he’d call me but I usually called him. In those forty plus years, I only missed three or four Sunday calls, even calling him from India, Afghanistan, Kuwait, and wherever the Air Force or our life took me. Of course we did not only call on Sundays; we would randomly call during the week (usually Dad would call and tell me about the weather or that he was bored). But, regardless if we just spoke on Saturday evening, it was understood we would still talk Sunday at eight p.m.; it was our sacred ritual.

Sometimes the calls were short, sometimes long, but they became something I looked forward to. We planned our dinner times and social events around those calls, sometimes rushing home to make sure I would be by the phone at eight p.m. (Thank goodness when cell phones were introduced; we could call from anywhere!) Don't misunderstand, though, the calls were not always pleasant. We’d argue, or we’d barely say a thing, but we always fixed it, usually  that same night. Sometimes I dreaded calling him because I just didn’t feel like getting lectured about budgets or relationships. But the majority of the time I loved talking to my parents. They made me feel special, and loved, and wanted. 

During these phone calls Dad would ask me the same questions he had asked me time and time again, like what I did in the military,  or what was that commander’s name, and I never really knew if he actually forgot what I had told him the week before or if he just wanted to hear my voice. What he never forgot to say, though, was each and every time how proud he was of me and how much he and Sheila loved me. You’d be surprised how much hearing those words comforted me even at the age of 40, or 50 or 60. 

But then in January 2018, at the age of 94, Dad was in stage four of COPD. His prostate cancer had spread into his pelvic bones, and his health steadily deteriorated.  After watching him fight the good fight for ten months, Sheila relented and placed him on home hospice. I lived with them and helped care for him, and when I’d leave once a month to run home for a weekend, he’d say, gasping for air between each word, “Don’t forget to call Sunday!”

My last call to my dad was Sunday, December 2, 2018. I’d gone back home for the weekend. I called at eight o’clock and Sheila answered, telling me Dad was sleeping and she didn’t want to wake him. He could barely breathe that day so Sheila had given him some medicine to ease his breathing, and some morphine to ease the pain. Something didn’t feel quite right. I left home early Monday morning.  When I arrived at their home, Sheila told me Dad woke up in the middle of the night and asked, “did Barbara call?”  And although she assured him I had, it broke my heart that he didn’t get to hear my voice. 

Three days later, early in the morning hours of December 6, 2018, Dad died. 

That first year of Sundays following his death was brutal. At first I called as I always did when Dad was alive, and I’d talk to Sheila, the conversation invariably turning to how much we missed Dad. Usually though I was with Sheila, helping her sort out her life without Dad. 

Then just when I began to get over the pain of missing those calls,  Sheila died, and now both parents were gone. I hated 8 pm on Sundays. Many times I’d pick up my phone at eight p.m. but then I remembered he wasn’t there anymore.  I can’t bear to hear the ringtone I assigned to Dad and Sheila—the motorcycle. Even five years later, I’m sitting here, tears rolling down my face, wishing I could call one more time and hear his voice, and Sheila’s voice, her hollering “Joseph it’s Barbara”, and Dad coming to the phone and picking up where we left off. 

I saved many of their voicemails. I wish I had more. I listen to them sometimes to hear their voices again, to remember how much they loved me and how blessed I was to have parents who were always there. I have a DVD of him talking about his World War II service, something their church did during a veterans recognition week. I still cannot get up the nerve to watch it. I have home movies from 1965 on, and one day I’ll watch them. But not yet.  I miss them. I really miss my dad. 

Nowadays communication is via text or FaceBook message or WhatsApp. We call from the car, from work, from the bathroom, restaurants, sporting events, you name it. A phone call isn’t special anymore. It’s something to check off a list, to fit in when you have a few minutes to squeeze in, and it usually ends abruptly and unceremoniously (when another call comes in, the light changes, your dinner arrives, or, for whatever reason, because the caller has to go. “Gotta run!”  If someone doesn’t want to talk when a call comes in they just press the ignore button. More than likely they’ll respond with a text or an emoji or some weird abbreviation. 

I try to be focused on the person I’m talking to during phone calls, even during text or app chats. That’s the good thing about video chats. If you’re not paying attention it’s obvious. (I did try video chats with Dad. He never got the knack of fitting his whole face in the camera. I either saw his forehead or his nose or a hand when he held the phone wrong.) 

The morale of the story: Invest time and effort in speaking with people who love you. Listen to their voices. Pay attention to their tone, their mood.  Put everything else aside as much as humanly  possible when you’re on the phone. Give them a peephole into your life. Laugh with them and share silly stories. Cry with them. Share your sorrows and disappointments.  When they are gone, those memories will comfort you in your grief. 

Let it Go, Mom!

How many times have you heard (or said) those four words? If your answer is less than ten, you can skip the rest of this. But, if you're like me, read on, moms (and daughters*, so you can understand the crazy.)

Over the years I've written about relationships: being a grandma, daughter, sister, mom, stepparent, wife, even a friend. In some of these epistles I've merely described our relationship and how it made me feel, while in other entries I have proffered my insight, gained from experience, on the right way the other person should behave. Many times I do poke fun at myself, but I also point out how my parent/sister/husband/daughter could have acted more appropriately.

I am here to turn the table on myself, to put my misdeeds in the spotlight. Why? For three very good (and beautiful) reasons--you know who you are. But also I want to share this with you moms out there who may not have completely severed that umbilical cord yet, even though it's been over 25 years since you gave birth. 

*Disclaimer: I have no idea if this applies to sons. I don't have any of those. 

How to alienate your adult daughter in 10 easy steps

1. Give unsolicited advice; try to fix everything 
2. Call/text/email her several times a day
3. Point out her weaknesses (as if she doesn't know already) 
4. Constantly give examples of how you did things "back in the day"
5. Listen to conversations with her spouse; interject your own thoughts
6. Compare her to her sibling(s) or worse, discuss her with her sibling 
7. Persist in interfering even after she pleads with you to let it go
8. Disapprove of her parenting style 
9. Treat her like a child
10. Neglect telling her how proud you are of her accomplishments  

I thought about expanding on these, and adding some dry humor, but honestly the above statements do not need any embellishment. 

Dear Daughters: Your Mom is not a Mushroom

Oh the convoluted relationship between mothers and their adult daughters. Out of all my jobs, being the mom of adult daughters can (and does) make me question my sanity; it is an  emotional roller coaster. In any one minute period, I can feel pride, shame, joy, embarrassment, happiness, anger, irritation, peace, comfort, frustration, and sadness, and trying to explain any of my feelings usually gets dismissed as "you misunderstood." I thought I was alone in this, that perhaps because I am one of those highly sensitive persons I was imagining things. Turns out I am not. In talking to other moms of adult children (I know, that's an oxymoron), one common thread emerged: moms are seen by their kids as the persons they were when the kids were growing up. To them, Mom has not moved on, or changed, or developed a personality or life story of her own. This phenomenon exists regardless of how well mom and daughter get along. 

So, on that note, here are important things to remember to have a good relationship with your mom as you both age gracefully into the sunset.

1. Your mom was a person before you were born, and still is a person. She was not always your mom, even though you never met her until she was your mom. And when she became your mom, she loved you as best as she could, but always more than you would ever love her. Her life before you didn't cease to exist; it just got put on hold, or maybe even left behind. Everything changed for her. You became her world. Then you got older, and found your own world and left mom behind. You love her but you see her as she was when you left. 

    Stop and look at her with different eyes. See her the way you look at a stranger, get to know her. You are not the same as you were at 12 or 15 or 18...neither is she.

2. You do not know everything about your mom; you only know what she tells you and lets you see. There are many things children do not need to know about their mother's past, even though her past made her who she is, so when you ask questions about a part of her life she does not want you to see, she will blithely change the subject. But as you get older, and can understand there is pain and hurt and sin in the world, your mom may want to share parts of her life, herself with you. 

    Let her...you will have a richer experience for it. Don't turn away or tell her you don't want to hear about those things, as if it will make you not love her. Listen to her and learn about her life. It will help you understand not just her, but yourself as well.

3. Your mom still wants to kiss all your boo boos and make them better.  From the day you were born, your mom was the mama bear; when you came running to her crying, she was there. If you were sick, she magically made you feel better. If you felt lost, or said you would never EVER understand quadratic equations, she was there. If someone hurt your feelings, she listened. There were times she would let you make mistakes, hoping experience would be the best teacher. Then you flew the nest, and at first you'd ask for her help or advice (oh joy!), but then, all too soon, mom became obsolete, no longer needed. She would hear sadness or pain or anger in your voice or see it in your face, and she would ask you "what's wrong, what can I do?". 

   Let her ask you. Don't brush her off and change the subject. Talk to her, tell her as much as you can about your feelings and how you can sort it out. Tell her to just listen. She will. Don't shut her out. Or, if you must, nicely and graciously tell her you really aren't ready to talk about it, but you love that she noticed you were upset. 

4. Mom cannot keep every single event in your life in perfect order and remember the exact time and date and place it hapened; if she remembers it wrong, let it go.  Everyone has their own story, including your mom, and their own memories of events. You may think you will remember exactly what month and year your kids lost their first tooth or learned to ride a bike, but trust me, by the time your kids are in their late 20s, it all starts running together.  That's why you hear people over 50 always  saying "where does the time go?"--they really do not know where it goes--maybe it goes where those other socks go. Moms remember little snapshots of moments, sometimes triggered by a smell or a song or a word or a look. 

    So, if she says "Oh yeah, you did that when you were a seven and were wearing a yellow shirt," please don't correct her. Which leads me to number 5...

5. Your mom does not like to be corrected by her child, even if her child is 40.  No, your mom does not think she is perfect (even if she is), or that she is always right (even if she is), she just wants to be honored and respected, not corrected or dismissed or laughed at. If you really must say something to her because it hurt your feelings or caused pain or embarrassment to someone else who cannot or won't speak up for themselves, talk to your mom privately at another time. Sure she can learn from you, but there is way to do it.

    Be as respectful to her as you are to someone else your mom's age that you really admire. Oh, and never correct her in front of your spouse or in front of your children. 

6. Your mom has experience in many situations, so let her be herself.  Unless she has lived under a rock for the past 60 plus years, your mom has run across just about every situation you can name. She can handle herself. She gave birth to you, kept you alive for all those years, and look how perfect and smart you are now.

    Trust your mom. Don't be a helicopter daughter. See #1.

7. Your mom wants needs time alone with her grandchildren.  This is a tough one for some daughters out there, but you know if your mom can be trusted with your precious babies. Set your boundaries, sure, but grandchildren need time alone with their grandparents, and vice versa. Their conversations are different, and many times things are shared in confidence, so that is something you will have to work out with your kids and your mom. 

    Regardless, don't control their relationship; let them be themselves. Just don't abuse it--she already raised her kids; she does not want to raise yours.

8. You are not the only one who likes to be appreciated.  Instead of telling silly stories about your mom at family gatherings, or pretending your mom was oh so horrible when you are talking to your kids, say something nice, give her a compliment, talk about how your mom managed to work and raise kids, or how clean she kept things. 

    Build her up. Don't just make jokes. Oh, and she likes to hear these things even when it is just the two of you. Send her a card. Invite her to coffee. Tell her you were thinking about her. 

So, dear daughters, your mom isn't perfect--no mom is. But she is the only mom you will ever have. Some of you have stepmoms or "other" moms, but whoever you have to look up to as your mom, cherish her and honor her, get to know her. She will be your biggest fan and your best friend. 

Men, don't get your knickers in a twist.  This does not apply to you because, well, you just are not that complicated; sons don't seem to have the same communication issues as daughters. They just sort of grunt and look hungry, mom feeds them, and then all is good.

And remember, your mom is not a mushroom. 

Hiding under the Gray

me in Dec 1955

Gave my heart quite a jolt today. I was trimming some hair near the nape of my neck to send in for a hair follicle test (don't ask); the sample had to be close to the root. So I clipped up my hair, grabbed a little clump underneath, took the scissors, and SNIP, off it came. I brought it around to the front to place it in the sample envelope, and I gasped. I was visibly shaken. There it was, a 6 inch long strand of hair, not my original strawberry blonde, or blonde gray, or even brownish gray...gray. When in the world did this happen? The front and topside of my hair still has blonde streaks, and is light grayish blonde, I know intellectually hair underneath is going to be darker, and no I do not dye my hair, but really? Gray? I actually dropped it, I was so startled. It was truly a defining moment for me.

Believe me, I have no delusions of looking eternally youthful and dewy fresh, nor do I even want to, and the thought of plastic surgery to remove all the wrinkles and age spots I have worked so hard for makes me laugh (and at least I can still laugh...some of those women in Hollywood definitely cannot even move their mouths or eyebrows let alone laugh!). I see evidence of my aging every single day, sometimes several times a day,  I see it as I struggle to put on my compression socks over my varicose vein covered legs, and reach for my nice comfortable shoes (and sometimes my knee brace). I see it when I notice gravity is winning the war against every body part...soon I will be just one big rectangle. Arthritis, age spots, wrinkles, stiff joints, all these things I've been dealing with as gracefully as one can, plus some other things I never knew about like "vitreous gel detachment." That is the gel substance behind your eyeball and as you get older it dries up, shrinks, and eventually detaches from the back of the eye, and you suddenly get about 100 new little black floaters in your vision. Fun city. I deal with all this stuff. I know my body has an expiration date. 

But what floors me is it happened so quickly and took me by surprise. One minute I was a mom, a senior NCO, just doing my own thing, opening doors for older ladies and being polite and nice but not really seeing them like they were ever young once, and then BAM it happens to me. But inside, I am still me, the same me I have been all along, with all those experiences and memories and little tidbits to share. Same personality, same sarcasm and biting wit, same highly sensitive "cry at the drop of a hat" Barbara, same person with all the baggage I have been carrying all these years, but now it is all blended together, a much improved version. I want to scream out "I am still in here, I am still ME".  All of my younger Barbaras are behind the face in the mirror, the face others see right now. I am an amalgamation. Wow! Folks are getting a 67 for 1 deal...67 Barbaras for the price of 1! (I do realize that may frighten some of you).

This realization that getting older is no longer just some nebulous point sometime in the future, but it is happening now, hit me hard. Because now, at 67, I know I am not immortal. I am positive over half of my life is over (oh come on now...I am not being morbid...no one lives to be 140 anymore). More than ever, time IS precious, too precious to waste. I might have 30 more years, or 30 more minutes, and there is a lot I have to do during my remaining time. Like weigh what my driver's license says. Some of it I have already accomplished, like establishing healthy boundaries, eating sushi, raising chickens. Finally not being ashamed of who I was, or who I am, or what I did in the past. Jesus has taken care of all that for me. We have a deal. God gave me his wonderful grace, grace I do not deserve. Whatever else God has in His plans for me, I know He has marked out the sufficient number of minutes, hours, days, or years for me to complete them to glorify Him.  My gray hair "is a crown of glory gained in a righteous life." 

Older women, as a rule, are not frail, or forgetful, or silly. Most of us hate being called "sweetie" or "dearie" by anyone under the age of 60. 

We were all young once. And many of us still are young, we are just in an older body. John Prine wrote a song, "Hello in there," I first heard Joan Baez sing back in the 60s (some of you are probably googling those two artists right now). 

Awesome lyrics--the last line sums it up: 

So if you're walking down the street sometime 

And spot some hollow ancient eyes

Please don't just pass 'em by and stare

As if you didn't care

Say Hello in there, Hello

Fitting in when you're growing old

Girls, remember how hard it was to fit in when you were in high school? There were the smart girls, the popular girls, the cheerleaders, the jocks. I thought we left all those childish things behind, that we could be friends with whomever we want. But sadly those cliques never went away. 

It’s so frustrating to want to be friends with someone only to be rebuffed because of your age or what area of the country you are from, or even based on your stage of life. Women I meet look at me and see someone in their 60s, or someone not from here, when I don’t even give it a second thought how old I look or what my accent sounds like (although there are days I look in the mirror and wonder who is staring back at me). I just feel like me, I don’t feel like an age; I just want to make friends. Sure I am in my 60s, and my kids are grown and they have kids, but I am personable and funny and sensitive and have a lot of experience to share, a lot of stories to tell. But I am too “different” for some people. Why do women want to limit their exposure to people just like them? They could learn so much more, and share what they know too.

You know what’s not fair? Men over the age of 22 can be friends with any guys regardless of how old they are; they can hang out, talk, go to breakfast together, share stories, play sports, do Bible studies, tell dumb jokes, the list is endless. They can be single, married, divorced, or widowed. They can have kids or grandkids or great grandkids or none at all. They can be tradesman, white collar workers, or unemployed. That Y chromosome is the universal link tying them together.  But women?  No way. Women are agists; they adhere to a strict, unwritten, genetically implanted set of parameters that define in no uncertain terms who can belong to what groups. 

First, women divide themselves by profession or place of employment. Teachers, medical personnel, stay at home moms, lawyers, service employees such as waitresses and massage therapists, retail employees, business owners,…you get the point. Then, women sort themselves by decade (20s, 30s, 40s, and then anyone over 50), and marital status (single, married, widow, divorced [look out], and of course the perennially engaged/no wedding in sight. Next, you have the kids—who has them, who doesn’t, and more importantly, the children’s ages and school grade level. Where you’re from definitely matters, and hobbies and lifestyles narrow it down even more. Why does all this matter? What should matter is values, beliefs, religion, not the age or income demographic you fit into. 

Take, for example, the churches we have attended—my husband always seems to blend right in with men of all ages and backgrounds, but I feel nudged toward a certain group of ladies, all in their 60s and above, most of whom I nothing else in common with. My personality and energy level fit more with some of the younger women, but I get the distinct impression they are convinced I just don’t fit in—too old, too different. Sure everyone is friendly and sweet (it is church, ya know), but there are just far too many differences to overcome: parents were divorced, former Catholic, colorful past, second marriage, retired military. And it’s not just at church—I have volunteered in many capacities in our local community, and organize annual fundraisers for childhood cancer research. Through those activities I interact with a lot of people, and I am known and recognized, but the relationship stops short of forming a real friendship.

Having spent over half of my adult life in the military, I was accustomed to working with and for all kinds of people, from all over the world and every walk of life. I made friends for life, friends who would do anything for me and my family.  I miss fitting in with everyone, and having that common thread tying us together. To this day, my military comrades will randomly reach out and chat or call or even send a card. We attend weddings and 50th birthday parties and funerals; we keep in touch. And if we haven't seen each other for ten years, we just pick up where we left off, as if we just saw each yesterday. At the airport or in a restaurant, when two military members meet, there is an immediate unspoken rapport and understanding that defies explanation, an invisible bond. I think that is what I miss the most here, made all the harder by the artificially imposed limitations on who can be in my friendship circle. And no, I don’t want to move (yet) close to a military installation. Maybe I just want to be included in the friendship circles around me, to show them what they are missing, to take a chance, to go out on a limb to get to know me. 

Barring that, I'll cultivate the friendships of those who genuinely want to be my friends. Including my best friend--that guy I've been with for 33 years.

On dreams and nightmares

Last night I had one of those dreams again, a dream involving my sisters and their families; the plot and the setting change, but the characters are always the same: my dad, my stepmom, my mother, and my sisters. It was a happy dream, and I woke feeling at peace, more content than I had felt in six years. The general storyline was a bit silly, as they are in most dreams, but the characters were so real I could see their faces and hear their voices. My sister Mary Beth was getting married and I was helping her get ready on the big day; everyone was dressed and ready to go, but in true Mary Beth-fashion, the bride was not: she arrived late, still in a set of blue scrubs and crocs, hair and makeup definitely not done. Fast forward to the reception, and the whole family is there--mine, hers, Nancy's--and everyone is having a great time, laughing, smiling, looking like one of those Hallmark movie endings. My nephew Joe's twins were playing hide and seek, my granddaughters were coloring and dancing, and I was so, well, happy, happier than I had been in years. Then I woke up. At first, the dream euphoria continued, as if everything had actually happened and I had just awakened from a pleasant reverie of past events. 

Suddenly though, without warning, I snapped out of it, and realized it was, after all, only a dream, and I simultaneously felt silly and angry and sad, because the reality is my sisters have not spoken to me (not kindly, anyway) in over six years; they have completely shut me and my family out of their lives and the lives of their children, as if I have never existed. If there was any wedding, I would not even know about it, let alone be invited; although Nancy's daughter and youngest son celebrated weddings this year, I was not welcome, nor was any of my family.  Joe's four boys, including the twins I have never met, will never know me or Alex or my daughters and their children. My stepmom was the glue that held our fragile family together, and when she died, so did the family; we splintered apart into our own separate worlds. And so we remain, with little left of what once existed other than a few memories, and all the worst for it. 

Theories abound as to why we dream and what these dreams mean. Some say dreams are how we process memories, they reflect life experiences, or work through difficult and unsettling emotions. Still others propose dreams have a biochemical component, or they provide a protection to prepare us to face threats and danger. I think they all have a valid basis, but regardless of why we dream what we dream, I just want someone to tell me how to stop the dreams. Unlike most of my dreams and nightmares, these recurring dreams peopled by those I used to call family are so vivid, so detailed, and so realistic I wake up believing the dream is real, and it takes me a good 30 minutes to realize it was, after all, just a dream.  

More like a nightmare. A nightmare that never ends.

The unbreakable bond

"Urgent...Call me. ASAP. Not a scam, spam or joke." This was the message we received Sunday morning, sent to our Top Three, a bunch of retired senior noncommissioned officers who 20 years ago formed an unbreakable bond while working in the intel division at Shaw AFB, SC. All of us were in the top three of the enlisted tier; some were active duty at the time, some retired and working as contractors, but we all had one thing in common: our love for the military and each other. What started as an official group quickly morphed into something more intimate, having frequent get togethers at each others' homes as one member would announce "Top three at so and so's house this weekend!" These much anticipated gatherings involved a lot of food (usually ribs or brisket BBQ'd by Bill), beer, and fellowship, punctuated of course by comical hijinks (usually Tim, Kevin, and Liz). Some of my best memories are from these top three parties, and are etched into my brain forever. To an outsider these "parties" looked like any other party, but they were oh so much more; there was an unspoken promise to members to always be there for each other and their families, no matter what. Despite living separate lives miles apart and rarely seeing each other, if at all, that bond has persisted to this day.

As we get older, the group has dwindled as first one, then another, dies. We've lost Tim, Ronshella, and Steve. Someone notifies those of us remaining via a Facebook message to the group, and we gather to say farewell to yet another brother or sister. If we are lucky we have one final top three with someone who we know won't be around much longer, but usually the announcement of a death comes as a jolting shock. Such was the message on Sunday: one of our brothers was killed in a motorcycle accident the night before, leaving a wife of nearly 30 years, a son, daughter, and a brand new grandson. 

For those who have never served in the military, especially in the top enlisted tier, the camaraderie and closeness we share is incomprehensible. Our connection transcends distance, time, and station in life; it follows us to the grave, but does it stop there? Eating my breakfast in silence and prayer, memories flooded in about him--his love of life, spontaneity, loyalty, hilarious antics, dedication to the military and the United States, and most of all, his devotion and love for his family. Then it hits me...did he know Jesus? Will he be there when my time comes to leave this earth? Did I ever share my faith with him, or pray for him, or for the others, people I claim such a kinship? Am I doing all I can to carry that bond beyond the grave?

Sure, life is short, people get old, we die, and life goes on--on earth, anyway. But what about eternal life? Do I share the joy of my salvation with those I love and cherish, or do I hide my light under the proverbial bushel basket? When the message goes out to our group informing them I have died, what will their thoughts be? Will they be assured I am in heaven? Will they even remember me as a Christian, as one who was passionate about her love for Jesus? When they try to remember my face, will it be the image of someone who lived for Jesus or for the world? Will it shock them that I was a Christian?

Urgent...pray now. ASAP. 

Kevin...I will always remember you for your loyalty, professionalism, patriotism, your ability to make everyone laugh, your crazy antics, but most of all for your love and devotion for your family. Ride on, Kevin, ride on.