She Carries the Fire

Please ignore the gangly geek in the photo. I almost chose a different picture with only that beautiful lady on the right, holding the graduation and honors certificates presented to her that day. Instead, I decided to embrace the fact that she insisted on sharing the stage with her awkward little brother. The family resemblance is strong, but even in this innocent snapshot from simpler times, her grace and strength shine through. Mine? Let's not go there.

I could easily have written about our mother, but I've dedicated a few stories to the fiery soul that she was. This is about the woman who inherited that fire and still tends it today. I've witnessed her wield it on many occasions and felt its burn a few times, myself. The most memorable involves me finding myself on my ass in the dirt, beside a school bus full of students that knew both of us.

Don't think for a second that she's a violent person. On the contrary, I'd worked hard to earn the embarrassment, and the fact is, the only thing hurt was my pride. Pardon the segue while I explain.

We lived rurally at the time, outside a very small town in Colorado. My sister, Sharon and I were the only school-aged kids at home. There was one bus dedicated to our area for all grade levels. On school days, we walked together down our little dirt road to its intersection with the county road and waited. I'm fairly sure she earned the wings she'll be awarded one day, solely by merit of those mornings - for the simple fact that I survived.

The day came when I found the end of her patience, and she'd warned me, not only on previous occasions, but only moments before. For reasons I can't fathom at this stage of life, my means of getting my sister's attention on those mornings was to incessantly poke her as we took our place in line to board.

So, there I sat on my butt, my face stinging more from the cold morning air on my cheek than the severity of the well-earned slap. I'd been knocked over by the shock, which is an indication of the thickness of my head. I would like to have added “in those days” to that, but I'm afraid it hasn't grown thinner in many ways, although the hair on it certainly has.

The point is, I learned something that day, as I found an empty seat on that bus in which to nurse my wounds. My sister carried the same, quiet fire inside as my mother, and I would not be provoking it again.

Now, the photo above was taken many years later, of course. Over those years, I would bear witness to the countless ways that flame worked in her life and I watch it to this day.

We would attend the same high school – not during the same years, of course. Let me assure you, she was a tough act to follow. Everyone remembered my sister. One of the marks she made for herself was as a journalist for the school newspaper. (Yes, she's part of the reason I write.) We had the same choir director. I honestly believe he expected more from me than I delivered. Throughout my days there, she never stopped encouraging me and telling me how great I was.

At 14 years old, I was lucky enough to realize that her fire was dangerously close to being extinguished over a boy. After a trip to the ER and a mandatory stay in rehab, I'm happy to say it burns stronger today. Before you give me any credit, you should know that I'm the one who benefited most.

She thrived as a military wife. She hung on to that marriage and made it work. She raised a family of boys, one of whom was born with a horrible disease and left this life as a teenager in a sudden and tragic way. She survived and loved country living, even after losing everything she owned in one of the worst wildfires in Colorado history. Her life has been uprooted time and time again, and she's faithfully replanted. She has survived the loss of her husband to cancer and still maintains the family business.

Through all of this, she's been a constant source of encouragement for her geeky little brother and the keeper of the flame passed down through the generations. The dragon beside me in this photo has been by my side all along.