RIP Harry Husker Lane

Grant and his dog

I am putting my dog down today.  I've never done this before as this really is my first dog.  As a child, I considered Sadie, my grandparents farm dog, mine, but in retrospect, we all shared Sadie.  That's what a farm dog is; a community pup.  I never owned an animal growing up, not even a gold fish.  So when Scott and the kids would bring up the idea of adding a dog to our home, I was always quite hesitant to take on the perceived responsibility.  That all changed in the winter of 2001.  While celebrating Christmas at my Aunt Barbara's we were all smitten with her new Maltese puppy, Max.  Barbara preferred this breed as her last Maltese, Duke, was their cherished family pet who lived until the ripe age of 14.  This cute little lap dog didn't shed, was mild mannered, small, and was down-right adorable.  The additional fact that swayed me to the role of dog owner was my Aunt Barbara's impeccable ability to research the best of everything.  Barbara is nothing short of the ultimate shopper/consumer.  There was no doubt in my mind that if Barbara chose this puppy, the breed and the breeder were the best, bar none.  So with the research done for me and the breeder's name and number in hand, I gave my three very happy boys and Scott my nod of approval.  And I am quite sure I wasn't the first parent "sold" on the purchase of an adorable bundle of fur on Christmas Eve.

Our good fortune in doggy decision making continued with our timely call to the breeder.  The down-to-earth breeder from the farmland of Northwest Iowa let us know that she had just concluded that her prized pup of her last litter was not "breedable".  She went on to tell us how Aunt Barbara knew that this puppy was of perfect disposition and of great Maltese character (indicators that were previously foreign to me...like teeth alignment, length of tail, playfulness, and responsiveness).  This was the dog Barbara originally wanted, but the breeder wouldn't hear of it as she was also aware of the prize Maltese features and no money would convince her otherwise.  Fast forward four months later and an observation on the male anatomy of her prized dog which led to a future that wouldn't include breeding.  My luck was in making a phone call to her at exactly the right time.  This dog was ours if we could pick him up soon.

Grant meets his new puppy for the first time

Harry Husker Lane joined our home in January of 2002 with a bit of fanfare.  Scott had a buddy with a pilot's license.  Together they boarded a small plane and flew to Cherokee, Iowa to retrieve our new dog.  Eight year old Zach Lane was home sick that day.  I now wonder how much of his illness was the anticipation and desire to be home when the puppy arrived.  Zach had come up with the name Harry based on the love of all things Harry Potter at the time.  Many have thought that our fluff ball was named "Hairy" after his mane of white when in reality the inspiration was none other than Harry Potter.  I will never forget the moment that Zach took his cute little pup in his arms.  A boy and his dog; a bond between innocent souls that can warm the coldest of human hearts.  And Harry did not let us down with his reputation that preceded his introduction.  He had an excellent disposition, was a smart dog, and was as lovable as he looked.  Thank-you, Aunt Barbara.

With Grant and Harry so close in age, we watched our two "boys" with similar personalities grow up together.  They basically went through their toddler and boyhood years simultaneously.  As Grant would run around and play in the back yard, Harry would be at his heals; catching butterflies and chasing squirrels.  Harry would enthusiastically follow all the boys and their friends everywhere they went and knew exactly where to strategically lie to get the food droppings from the messy eaters.  We put in a doggy door many years back and this was Harry's favorite thing in life.  He loved going outside and having the empowerment of an open door at his disposal.  The bigger the dog within his territory, the better the adversary in Harry's world.  He feared no other creature regardless of size and would bark at all as though he was a hundred pound lab.  Our big back yard provided a kingdom for Harry to rule and protect us against all animals big and small.  And then there are the many dog walkers whose routes pass by our back yard and love our little Harry.  They will be very sad when they notice his absence.

Harry originally joined our family as "the boys' dog".  I assumed the role of the mother who allowed the pet, but it was the kids responsibility to care for him and take care of his needs.  The first few years of Harry in our home was one of Harry being just one of the band of brothers.  I played the mother role of purchasing the dog food, setting the grooming and vet appointments, and making sure the boys were caring for him.  This all changed in the summer of 2004.  I had contracted pneumonia and was very ill.  As I lay on the couch for days, alone while Scott and the boys were at work, school, and day care; Harry never left my side.  Although an active pup, he quietly laid snuggled in next to me for days as I lay motionless fighting off my illness.  We developed a bond over the course of that week.  He became my dog with his favoritism now to me and me to him.  As the boys got older and busier with their daily lives, I assumed the primary role of caring for Harry.  He and I were a duo and he kept me company amongst the craziness and noise that went along with raising three boys.  And I always knew in my heart that this little dog was going to do everything to protect me and comfort me even when I couldn't take care of myself.

Harry was now my dog

Around the time our family was in a bit of disarray and change with the divorce, Harry started having health issues.  What I thought might be a bladder infection turned into a diagnosis of diabetes.  So Harry's carefree existence of having the run of the backyard and sleeping in the warm sun by the front door turned into two shots of insulin a day, a monitored diet, some real highs and lows in blood sugar, and the reaction of all of this to his seven pound frail body.  Our nightly walks under the stars were therapy for both of us, I am quite sure.  I do feel a bit of guilt on not being as an attentive of a dog-mom these last few years in juggling work, kids, travel with my new life as a single parent.  But as Harry took care of me with my pneumonia, he also understood and stayed by my side during my new chapter.  And with the loving help (and co-dog-parenting) of my Aunt Joan, Harry's health needs were met and he was given abundant love during the last leg of his journey.  Many tears have been shed as we put him down with thoughts of "I will never go through this again".  But this little furry guy was one of our family.  I am so glad those little boys convinced their non-animal mom that we needed to give a dog a try those many years ago.  Way too soon, but a great eleven years, Harry Husker Lane :)

Messages to Mel

I met Fr. Mel in the summer of 2007.  He was the new priest at my church, St. Wenceslaus, and I was one of two church Trustees.  Father came to us after spending a comfortable and happy twelve year existence at the popular St. Margaret Mary parish in mid-Omaha.  But regardless of the success Father exhibited in leading this parish, archdiocesan rules dictate that priests are given a six year term at a given parish which can be extended to a second, but never to exceed twelve years total.  Fr. Mel had met his twelve years at St. Margaret Mary, and following the archdiocesan mandate, he was given a new assignment.  St. Wenceslaus was the lucky benefactor of this rule of hierarchy.

Along with the other Wenceslaus parishioners, I had heard much about Fr. Mel in the months leading up to his ultimate move to the West Omaha rectory.  Father was for all practical purposes, a legend of sorts.  Bringing up his name and new appointment in conversation was nearly always followed by comments of adoration.  The typical response was that our parish had hit the jackpot in Fr. Mel being named our new pastor.  It was quite obvious that this man of cloth had a wide circle of friends and parishioners who were very sad to see Father make the nine mile trek out west.

The popularity of Fr. Mel and the reputation that preceded him also brought an untended reaction from me.  It was actually a reaction of non-reaction.  In hindsight, I had assumed that this very social priest had his established "posse" and was a bit hesitant to interject myself into his tight circle.  The reality was that the move was very difficult for Fr. Mel.  He had become comfortable in his St. Margaret Mary community and as he battled the first signs of his health issues, this same community surrounded him with love and support.  But as with anything in life, people move on.  Fr. Mel moved out west.  St. Margaret Mary was assigned a new pastor and Fr. Mel found himself in a new home starting all over again.

A few weeks after the changing of the guards, a good friend called me and point blank asked if I had met Fr. Mel yet.  I was a bit taken aback and responded with a litany of excuses on how I was waiting for him to get settled in and how I was sure he was busy; too busy to bother with the likes of me.  He would certainly call when his schedule freed up, wouldn't he?  My friend who had the benefit of being a St. Wenceslaus parishioner, but grew up and had family remaining at St. Margaret Mary, went on to tell me that Father enjoyed company and would appreciate a visit from the church trustee.  Yes, it was definitely a well deserved nudge and a reminder of how grateful I am of real friends who aren't afraid to throw it out there.

A bit embarrassed, I shot an e-mail to our new priest introducing myself.  He quickly responded, eager to hear more about our parish and get a feel of the parishioners.  I soon met a man of strong stature and with an aged sophistication.  In his early sixties, he immediately struck me as stoic and confident.  But through all of the professionalism and talk on parish mission and roles, I saw in his eyes a look that struck me.  Fr. Mel was sad.  It was the unmistaken look of homesickness.  As his mouth told me all the right words as our new leader, his eyes told a different story of a man pulled from his home during a trying time in his life; uprooted to start over when he was ready to enjoy the comforts of his twilight years among his community of long-term friends.

Priest or no priest, trustee or no trustee, I simply liked Fr. Mel.  We had an instant rapport and I wanted to help.  Based on his reputation of being social and outgoing, I knew that a parish party of sorts was in order.  Within a couple of weeks I planned and hosted a parish open house in my back yard welcoming Fr. Mel to our parish.  We were blessed with a beautiful summer evening and masses of people who came and went, introducing themselves and getting to know our new pastor in a casual setting.  Although belated, it was a success. Fr. Mel enjoyed meeting his many new friends and worked the crowd like a pro.  We parishioners quickly picked up on the attributes that led to his popularity at his prior parish. 

Father and I became friends and a bit of an unlikely duo....a 40 year old chatty light-hearted woman and a 60 year old traditional Catholic priest.  Our initial friendship revolved around the multitude of parish meetings with many in the morning which included Father introducing me to the Keurig one cup coffee machine.  Fr. Mel had a weak spot for new and interesting technology and was always sharing tips on his latest gadgets.  His smart phones and tablets kept him an organized man with great responsiveness to his many daily e-mail requests.  Parish council meetings were well run and on point; following a set agenda, while allowing time for orderly discussion and new business.

One particular meeting carries a fond memory.  There was an issue at the church that many council members felt Father should address at the pulpit.  He disagreed.  A few members pulled me aside before the parish council meeting asking that I take a bit more of a stand on the issue as they felt that Fr. Mel might listen better to me.  The issue came up and as expected, Father thoughtfully gave his stance on not addressing the congregation.  As anyone who knows Fr. Mel is aware; he has a strong and confident presence.  The room fell silent until I piped up in polite disagreement.  Father and I continued to discuss and debate the pros and cons without my conceding defeat.  Finally, exhausted and unable to come up with any more rebuttals to my arguments, Fr. Mel concluded that addressing from the pulpit was the way to go.  As others then reiterated to him that this would be a good thing, Father was clearly spent from the conversation and ended the meeting with his dry sense of humor as he deadpanned, "Well I've never had a wife, but now I clearly know what it feels like."  I believe this was a nice way of saying I was nagging, which I will accept.  And we all did have a good laugh over it.

Fr. Mel adjusted to his new surroundings and his new parish.  He was not afraid of change or of ruffling feathers when he saw a need to be filled or a roadblock to be removed.  As Father began thriving in his new environment, my happy life started falling apart.  The same friend who nudged me to call Mel upon his arrival, was now aware of my impending divorce and was nudging me to call Fr. Mel and lean on him for guidance and support.  This was a difficult call for me as I felt like a failure; in God's eyes and in the eyes of a priest whom I respected a great deal.  I was well aware of the Catholic Church's stance on divorce and annulment.  Here I was the mother of three boys in the parish school, church trustee, and soon-to-be divorcee; exactly the opposite expectation of my role as a Catholic or as a Christian.  Yet I also knew that there was no chance that divorce would not be the ultimate outcome of my marriage.

After biting the bullet and making my appointment with Father, I was prepared to hear how I needed to save my marriage and not divorce.  I had visions of looking at the ground in shame while being lectured on how my marriage was a sacrament, never to be broken.  But instead feeling judged, I was given an unanticipated gift; the gift of friendship, understanding, and acceptance.  Fr. Mel comforted me with no mention of failure and no casting of blame.  And although Father is not one to hug, sugar coat, or show emotion; none of these were necessary accommodations for the feeling the acceptance I was given that morning.  In his typical stoic and professional manner, Father supported me as a friend, parishioner, and parish trustee.  I went into the rectory that day knowing I had the support of God, but I left the rectory knowing I also had the full support of Fr. Mel and my church family.  This kindness given to me was a blessing for which I will always be grateful.

The months that followed were full of changes and although alarming to our business-as-usual parish, they were also anticipated with a change in leadership.  These changes were difficult at times and involved many early morning and late night planning meetings which included Father's trustees and parish advisors.  And Father led these strategic planning initiatives with the effectiveness and perspective of a Fortune 500 CEO.  Along with his Christian calling, it was evident that this man possessed the gifts of vision and leadership.  Father surrounded himself with smart people with good motives who collaborated for the common good of our parish.  In addition to being a great priest, Fr. Mel really was one heck of a CEO.  He was a blessing to our parish is so many ways.

As my divorce was becoming real and I was adjusting to my new role as a single mom and divorcee in a parish full of married couples, I sat in church with my boys one Sunday hearing a gospel which spoke specifically on divorce.  With my boys sitting next to me and all of us suddenly feeling in the spotlight, we braced for the sermon on the dreaded "D" word...divorce.  Fr. Mel took the pulpit to address the packed church that October morning.  I understood what his message needed to be and sat back to take in his words while holding my head high.  But the words that came out of Father's mouth were unexpected.  "We are a broken people, some more so than others.  We should have compassion, understanding, and forgiveness as characteristics of our behavior.  No one should feel he or she is an outcast because of their state of life."  Father went on to clearly talk about the merits and ideal of a permanent loving relationship, but ended his sermon with "It’s a challenge to our Church to consider how we are to treat those sincere and wounded people who have gone through a divorce....Mark’s gospel is all about mercy. None of us in the pews can look down our noses at anyone else and claim to be better Christians than they."

My boys sat in the pew next to me with their eyes wide as my eyes welled with tears and I smiled from ear to ear as I felt the mercy given to me fill my heart.  Fr. Mel executed this sermon with great conviction and I felt as though Father was talking directly to me and my kids.  The reason I am able to quote his sermon verbatim is because after I thanking him after the mass, I asked for a copy.  Father did just that via e-mail and I refer to it still today.  I have passed it on to friends who have gone through similar circumstances as mine.  Father's words of Christian forgiveness and the impact of his message on human compassion have truly been "paid forward" numerous times over.

For the next year, although Father's health continued to decline, we shared some fond memories together that many times included food, wine, and great company.  A couple of these outings included my visiting parents who enjoyed the camaraderie and conversation of a man from their same era.  It was fun to hear them reminisce of their days of youth; from cars to hair (and Mel's cracks at himself on his current state of lacking hair).  Sitting back and taking in these jovial interchanges reminded me of the human element and the ordinary upbringing that this man of cloth shared with my parents.  It also reminded me of all he sacrificed to dedicate his life to God and forego the traditional life of a husband and a father.  There were many personal sacrifices in the 40+ years by Fr. Mel for the benefit of others whom he provided Christian leadership.  I was one of thousands who were a benefactor of his sacrifice.  If one were to quantify the impact of this man with the many stories from those he touched, no doubt it would be a great novel.

This very strong man is now weakened with an illness which has quickly and dramatically taken a toll on his physical well being.  Mel retired from his ministry long before he was ready and the ailments of his physical body have held him back from the typical enjoyments of retirement.  After hearing about the recent aggressiveness of his illness and warned of the potential shock of his failing, I was given yet another Fr. Mel blessing. After surprising Mel at his assisted living home, I was able to participate in a mass he co-celebrated and enjoy lunch together.  I had caught Mel on a day he felt good, very good in fact.  We enjoyed each other's company with small talk of basketball, parish events, and family.  This was the last time I have seen Mel.  The last two times I went to mass at the home, Fr. Mel did not feel well enough to attend.  It was nothing short of miraculous that my visit was reminiscent of our days past when his health was better.

So now I have shared my personal story of Fr. Mel.  It is a story of friendship and acceptance.  Although I knowingly classify my time with Fr. Mel as a small piece in his big world, it has nonetheless made a lasting impact on me and is a treasured part of my personal journey.  And now it is my turn to give back to Fr. Mel.  I want to do this in the best way I know how...by sharing my gratitude through the written word and providing a platform for the many people who have been a part of Fr. Mel's life to do the same.   Father may not be able to participate physically in people's lives anymore, but he can still hear our words.  A blessing we can all give to Fr. Mel is the comfort in knowing that his immense sacrifice in giving to God and the church continues to grow in the fruits of goodness produced in the many, many people he has touched.  The comments section below is meant for Mel.  I am simply the first story teller and the one to first share.  God bless.

Footnote:  Fr. Mel died March 26, 2012 before I was able to post this blog.  Following his death, I had set this story aside feeling that I was simply too late.  But after some reflection, I felt that sharing my story now would still have an impact.  Although the original intent of the post wasn’t fulfilled, the resulting prayers and continued sharing of his life could serve as a documented testament of his great legacy.

As a side note, post funeral services, I have to share yet another lesson I have now learned from Fr. Mel.  This is a lesson on how to live your life when you are put in a position of influence.  This covers many roles in life; from Christian leaders to parents, business owners or politicians.  After hearing the many great testimonies and stories shared about Mel at his vigil and funeral, I was struck by two powerful characteristics he embodied.  Those characteristics were empathy and humility.  These are unfortunately a rarity with those in positions of influence in today’s society.  They often lose sight of these great characteristics as the temptation of pride and ego get in the way.  By putting others first and promotion of self importance last, leaders like Fr. Mel have left a lasting legacy by both words and example to all those they have touched.   Fr. Mel never stopped listening and helping all those he met on his life journey with a caring ear and heartfelt support.

God bless you, Fr. Mel.  We will miss you greatly, but I am certain your guardian angel work will continue from above.   

Swimming Pool Blues



I am Miss USA to the left and Bev, Miss America, to the right.

 I just signed up for my first triathlon.  With my many years of running and recent addition of cycling to my repertoire, the question, "Why don't you do a triathlon?" comes up quite often.  My answer has always been, "I'm not a very good swimmer.  I would sink".  I have perfected the dog paddle, but past that; my skills are limited.  This statement does seem a bit odd based on my childhood summers spent with endless, parentless hours at the pool.  An inquiring mind would wonder how I could have slipped through those many years in the sun without a whistle twirling around my finger and my butt situated in a life guard seat.  Alas, I am going to have to blame this one on my mom; the woman who virtually does nothing wrong.  But in this case, her snap decision to remedy a wardrobe malfunction with a safety pin derailed the course of my swimming future.

My wardrobe, designed and sewn my my talented seamstress mother, included exquisite designs that were rarely tackled by her Remsen housewife counterparts.  Mom had a little Stella McCartney in her and loved the challenge of sewing a piece that was difficult, different, and required her to "go outside the pattern".  Above is a photo of me in my first bikini which was handmade by my mom.  My best friend, Bev, and I decided to dress up as Miss America and Miss USA for the Remsen Kids' Days costume parade.  We made our roses out of tissue paper, our banners out of streamers, cut our crowns out of card board, and added string to sheets for our capes.  All of our design work was done with the sole handiwork and imagination of two twelve year old girls who only wished we had (and were allowed) high heals to finish off our look.  Ahhh...got to love the innocence of youth.  There wasn't a hint of embarrassment or self-consciousness in our parade walk that day.  We felt confident in our role as two small town beauty queens.

You will notice some very subtle differences in Bev's and my bikini if you look closely.  Bev's store bought stunner had about half the material as mine; both in the bottom and in the top.  I would refer to mine as a "full coverage" fit.  I would also say that my mom may have had some ulterior motives choosing to make mine herself.  I am quite sure that the thought of me prancing around the Remsen Public Pool in my pre-teen years without full coverage would not be her preference.  And there was room to grow left in both pieces as I am now sure she wanted to be extra cautious in not having my junk hanging out.  Perhaps my mom should be a designer of today's swimwear.  I am sure many parents of teens (girls AND boys) would appreciate her discretion.

I was very grateful to my mom for allowing me this indulgence and for designing my floral bikini.  I wore it proudly to the pool that summer of 1979.  My brothers and I would make our daily trek to the pool and wait in line until the opening hour of noon.  These were the days we were reminded that we needed to wait an hour after eating before swimming.  Note that although the hour rule was strictly enforced to promote safe swimming, we didn't have a clue on the benefits of sun screen and saturated our bodies in baby oil to take in ever inch of the sun.  We would hang out at the pool all day with our friends until the church bells sounded their fifteen minute warning call for 6:00 supper.  When we weren't in the pool, we were either running barefoot in the adjacent park, causing trouble somewhere in Remsen (pay phones were a sinful temptation, the cemetery was our playground, and the church tower was our jungle gym), or spending our hard-earned bean walking money on melted white water taffy, salty popcorn, or sour bottle tops.  And there was no such thing as a helicopter mom in the 70's.  I am sure my mom knew where the pool was located, but I have no recollection of her ever watching from a park bench outside the chain link fence or checking in on us.  She had better things to do with her precious time and we never thought twice of her absence from our carefree days.

In order to gain the privilege of spending hours at the pool while ruining our youthful skin under the rays of the sun, we were also required by mom to go to swimming lessons.  These lessons ran throughout the summer months and were also in the early morning hours when the water was it's coldest.  I never looked forward to these cold swims, but followed the instruction of the trained life guards and passed the entry levels without incident.  Most kids in town went through the beginning learners courses, but only a few took it to the coveted junior water safety level which was necessary to move on to the life saver level which was the only avenue to become a life guard.  And wasn't every Miss USA a life guard as a teenager?  Yes, of course, I wanted this.  Being a good student, the junior water safety course was a breeze.  I passed this phase with flying colors.  The next step, and the only remaining step toward the life guard track, was passing the life saver level.  I went through the lessons learning how to lug weighted dummies out of the deep end of the pool and how to effectively dive in a timed trial utilizing the precious seconds necessary to save a life.  I was prepared and ready to take the life saver test. Since being a life saver and a potential life guard was not taken lightly, these tests were given on a one-on-one basis to ensure that the swimmer had effectively mastered these skills.

On the morning of my testing, I put on my floral bikini ready to pedal up to the pool and show my skills.  By this time, we were closing in on the end of our summer break and my suit had gotten the typical intense chlorine workout of a twelve year old pool rat.  I had noticed my bikini bottoms progressively getting looser.  But that particular morning, they had gotten so loose that they wouldn't stay up.  Panicked, I ran to Mom showing her my wardrobe malfunction.  She quickly assessed the situation and determined that I had stretched out the elastic to the point of it no longer holding it's elasticity (too much taffy perhaps?).  She pondered threading a new piece of elastic through the sewed band with a safety pin, but settled on a last second call of tucking the bikini bottoms to a tight fit by securing them with a large safety pin.  "This will work for now," she said adding, "I'll fix them when you get home tonight."  Hesitant, but with faith in my ever-resourceful mother, I took off for the pool.

A bit worried about the exposed safety pin pressing on my hip, I listened to the hunky and tanned life guard, Rob, explain the steps involved with my testing that morning.  The good news was that Rob never noticed my safety pin as he was more concerned with tanned and trim Connie who was starting her life guard duties of the day by cleaning the leaves out of the pool.  Connie was sporting a pink ruffled bikini which was accentuated with large breasts that were visibly absent from my suit.  Rob couldn't take his eyes off of Connie as she playfully teased him back with every flirtatious curve ball he threw her way.  Not only was I relieved that Rob didn't notice the obviousness of my safety pin, but I was now self-conscious about my noticably homemade swimsuit as well.  This was the first time it crossed my mind that homemade was not the norm (kind of like how Eve felt when she first realized she was naked).  Connie's hot pink ruffles were certainly gathered somewhere outside of Remsen.

As I lugged the heavy dummy across the length of the pool in hopes that Rob would actually watch so I wouldn't have to redo, I noticed that my bottoms weren't staying secured.  As I swam, they would fall down below my hips with my behind exposed under water.  I pulled them up with one hand while head bobbing and trying to lug the dummy to the side with the other.  I am sure it looked a bit like I was drowning myself when I was supposed to be demonstrating my skills as the one able to save a life.  But the choice between exposing my rear or looking confident in my dummy dragging skills went to not letting Rob see my very white buttocks.  After going through the swimming laps portion of  the test, it was clear to me that my drawers were a problem and the safety pin an inadequate fix.  Working elastic was definitely a necessity for an effective swimming suit.  Panic set in as Rob was making too many notes on his clip board and started looking at me strangely while losing interest in Connie.  With every stroke as I was trying to inconspicuously slide my arm underwater to pull up my bottoms, I had surely looked like a drowning rat as Rob looked on.  I am also pretty sure Connie was watching me too, wondering what was up with this strange girl flailing around in the water.

The last part of the test was diving off of the high board.  As Rob explained what was required of me with a puzzled look on his face, I was having flashbacks to my grade school lessons on the law of gravity.  This law certainly wasn't going to be in my favor with my wearing elasticless bottoms going off a high diving board.  As I stood at the edge of the tall board, I locked my knees together in an attempt to keep my suit on during my exposed decent into the water.  I can only imagine how this technique looked by a set of eyes watching from the life guard stool.  Although I was able to keep my drawers on during flight, they came off (yes...all the way off) once I hit the water.  After scrambling ten feet under water to find and re-secure my swim suit bottoms back unto my body, I emerged by the ladder.  At this point Rob was now concerned.  In his defense, all of his attention was now on me as he nicely showed me the proper stance and execution of a high dive.  He even tried to physically position my legs into a stance where my knees didn't touch.  The entire time he was explaining the obvious, I was panicking in worry that the already loose bottoms would fall down as he stood next to me and within inches of my rump.  A second try off the high board by me led to the same result as the first.  Fortunately, I was again able to retrieve my suit bottoms before coming up and thus avoiding exposing either my swimsuit problem or my naked bottom to Rob and Connie.  Rob did take it easy on me as he explained that he couldn't pass me, but with a little work I could try again another time.

I couldn't get out of the Remsen Public Pool fast enough following my failed swim test.  I raced home distancing myself from the embarrassment that stayed behind for Rob and Connie to rehash without me.  When mom asked me how it went and I told her the play-by-play in my twelve year old voice, I think she was actually laughing.  But without saying another word about my swimming pool blues, she simply took the bikini bottoms and secured them with a new piece of elastic while asking me what else lay ahead on that beautiful summer day.  Life went on.  We never wasted any time crying over spilled milk at my house.  I am also pretty sure that I decided to go back to the swimming pool that day in my perfectly fitting floral bikini as I blended in with the hoards of kids with the same idea.  I never did take the test again, but have decided that some lessons are in order before I take on the triathlon.  But no bikini this go around.  I will go for the one-piece spandex made exquisitely in China.

Meet Malcolm Gladwell

I work for Lutz & Company.  I love to say that.  In fact, I kind of wear it on my sleeve.  People often talk about loving what they do and give the common clichés on their employer of choice...work/life balance, open door policies, putting people first, etc...  No clichés necessary at Lutz.  I live it, so I know this to be true.  I work for an awesome company with an incredibly talented and big-hearted group of people.  I have worked here for over twenty-one years and each day I look forward to sharing life with my co-workers.  My personal feelings can be attested to by our recent first place award for "Best Accounting Firm to Work For"...a national award for mid-sized accounting firms and an honor of which I am very proud.

With this recent honor, a past award from 2009, "Young Professionals Choice Award", has invaded my memory.  The timing of this award corresponded with a life-changing time in my life as I was then only a few raw months into my divorce.  The particular day that is populating my memory started with an e-mail blast to our office proudly announcing this award notification.  It gave me a bit of a smile and some added pep on a bleak Nebraska winter morning.  As I went about my day during the busyness of tax season, one of my partners popped his head into my office.  “Hey, do you think you could give the acceptance speech at Chamber award luncheon next week?” he asked me.  “Hmmm”, I thought.  I sure didn’t see this coming.

As he looked at me and asked me this question, there was no doubt as to the look I saw in his eyes.  It was a look I had become quite accustomed to during that time period in my life.  It was the look of sympathy.  I have never been able to understand why anyone would pay for a palm reading.  Hands are clearly a waste of time.  You can see everything in a person’s eyes.  And I have seen all kinds of sentiments in other people’s eyes over my forty-four years…admiration, fear, dislike, affection, envy, loyalty, distrust…  Yep, this one was definitely sympathy.  It did make me pause a bit and wonder what he saw in my eyes as looked back.  Embarrassingly, I concluded it was probably a bit of vulnerability.  A look I was also quite sure my partners weren’t accustomed to seeing from me during our twenty years working together.  Ugh.  My head felt foggy and I felt a bit lost, so I was quite sure my eyes reflected this same sentiment.

“Sure”, I answered.  “They will have you sit at the head table,” he goes on to explain, “and you'll have two minutes to give an acceptance speech.”  “Got it”, I responded.  I wondered to myself if there was some discussion among partners that this may be an opportunity to encourage me and help me get me back to my prior pre-divorce self…engaged, game on and no fog.  But since speculation served no good, sympathy or no sympathy; I was honored to accept the award and that I would do.  It was time for me to reacquaint myself with the outside world again anyway.  Maybe this was the nudge I needed?  Since I love to give speeches and enjoy public speaking, the prospect of this acceptance speech was becoming invigorating.  It is a strange anomaly in life when a person who is petrified of missing a fly ball in little league softball doesn’t have a bit of heart palpitation in giving impromptu speeches to hundreds.  Figure that one out.   

So the day came for my coming out party.  I put on my favorite dress, jacket and boots in anticipation of stepping out into the world again. With the luncheon downtown and an 11:00 departure time; at about 10:00, I thought I better write my speech.  The negative on being a writer is that you innately know that you can get away with waiting until the last minute to write little things like an acceptance speech.  Don't get me wrong, I had thoughtfully reflected on what I wanted to say for days.  But with a two minute window, I needed only a few words to nail the message.  And this speech meant something to me.  I love my co-workers at Lutz.  Not only had I been blessed to work with so many great people over my years at Lutz, but I felt completely surrounded by great love and support during a very rough spot in my life.  Some shared words during this difficult time; others just gave me warm smiles with no words necessary.  I always knew they had my back.  So everything that had been circling in my brain for last few days were typed onto a one page speech in approximately twenty minutes.  And I felt good about it.  When I reread my written words, I knew that this was exactly what I wanted to say.

With my speech stuffed into my suit pocket, my boots hit the ground; in route to take the podium Downtown.  I was expecting a small crowd made up of my Lutz co-workers.  Thinking this, my speech was fondly written for my co-workers and to my co-workers. As I walked into the Qwest Center, I quickly realized that my estimations were clearly off.  I was shocked to find myself in the company of over 1,000 attendees.  It just so happened that our award was a mere smaller portion of a bigger Chamber event featuring a national keynote speaker.  Still a bit shell shocked with the mounds of people filling the room, I was guided to the head table.  There was a brief panic attack when I second guessed my choice of spending a mere twenty minutes to write my speech.  I certainly knew I didn't rehearse it enough.  I found myself sitting at the head table with local news personalities and corporate sponsors.  After exchanging pleasantries, I looked around trying to locate the nearest bathroom.  By my estimation, I had about ten minutes where I could hole up in bathroom stall and reread and possibly rewrite my speech; ensuring it was up to the standards with this very large audience.  I gave this about five seconds of consideration before deciding that I was golden.  No bathroom run for me.  If I wasn't picking up the words correctly from my paper in hand, I would just improvise by speaking from the heart…final answer.

Meet Malcolm Gladwell

As I perused the program to see find where our award fell in the timeline, I noticed a strange looking man who had just joined our table.  Many people were chatting with him and he was wearing an ill-fitting jacket.  He was also sporting a shocking dark Afro with fair skin and a receding hairline.  He held a sullen expression with little excitement in his mannerisms.  As it was clear that he would be joining the head table, I got up to introduce myself to this interesting individual.  I had no clue as to who he was or for what reason he was seated there.  As I walked towards him, I noticed a small mechanism attached to his jacket with wiring that worked its way up to his ear.  I quickly concluded that he was disabled and wore a hearing aid (some form of a cochlear implant device).  He must have been receiving a Chamber award for people with disabilities in the workforce.  In an effort to make sure I made him feel comfortable and accepted; and so he could clearly understand me, I stood with my face within six inches of his.  I extended my hand and with direct eye contact I VERY loudly and slowly said, "HELLO, MY NAME IS SANDY LANE.  WHAT IS YOUR NAME?"  As my brother, Matt, would say...I was in his grill.  This peculiar man than calmly said to me, "Nice to meet you.  I am Malcolm Gladwell."  Wow, he didn't seem so peculiar anymore.  He spoke perfectly normal; not what I expected from a person with a hearing disability.  He then just looked at me with a funny, almost annoyed expression and offered no small talk.  So I gave him a smile (he didn't smile back) and went back to my seat.

The ceremony began with Lutz award at the top of the list.  With a quick introduction of our firm and a write up on why we were chosen as "Young Professionals Choice Award", I was asked to accept the award on stage and give my speech.  I remember loosely following my written speech, but after connecting eyes with some of my co-workers; not wanting to look back down at the paper.  It was way too mesmerizing looking at the crowd and sharing with them the honest sediments that were nestled with pride in my heart.  And people smiled back at me...both with their mouths and with their eyes.  I saw acceptance.  It was exhilarating.  It just felt right and all was well in the world again.  The response from the crowd and my co-workers felt like a warm blanket.  I was now grateful to my partners for the vote of sympathy.  It was just what the doctor ordered. 

I sat down while the applause was still vibrating and filling my spirit.  The emcee moved on to introduce the featured keynote speaker with an introduction that included a long list of top-selling books and accolades on his publishing milestones.  Yes, Malcolm Gladwell is one accomplished writer and being the keynote speaker, he was wired with a small clip-on microphone.  And he gave an amazing presentation on his amazing book.  My dream would have been for Malcolm to catch my eye on his way back to the head table and we share "a moment", a look just between us, and then become fast friends with a chuckle later over our awkward introduction.  Maybe my speech resonated with him and we now had commonality?  Nope…not so much.  In fact, I believe he glared at me on his way back to the head table.  So in the end, Malcolm is not my FaceBook friend.  We did not share a laugh nor did we exchange contact information.  Although I do think Malcolm and I would have gotten on smashingly, it was not meant to be.  But all that mattered on that day were my Lutz co-workers who were there with me sharing our award acceptance.  And if I were to choose a friendship of choice, my fellow accounting warriors trumped the cult following of Mr Gladwell.  Yep, my coming out party was spectacular with an amazing guest list of 14 co-workers that was the envy of Omaha.  I would add that as a goodwill gesture, I did buy Malcolm Gladwell's book, "The Outliers".  A fascinating read.  I would highly recommend it.  Just don't ask me to get you a signed copy ;) 

To Whom It May Concern

 There is a story behind this blog.  An uncle had encouraged me to take my writing to the next level and "pitch" my work.  After thinking through this a bit (both on how to accomplish this and why I would want to), I began the following letter to potential publishing suitors.  If you envision me writing this with a glass of wine in hand on a Friday night flight to Denver, you have it nailed.  I wrote the intro in fun and then let the Word file sit on my computer for months.  But as I was continually asked why I write and why I have a blog (doesn't every accountant write stories on a blog??), I decided to pull up my draft and finish it.  So here it is...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

To Whom It May Concern:

I have been encouraged to take my writing to the next level and to seek a broader audience.  Although this sounds interesting, I really have no idea how to pitch my writing.  This is not a skill that I have ever needed nor refined.  The reality is that for all practical purposes, I am simply just an accountant and a mom.  Don’t get me wrong; I can write one wicked e-mail on demand as it relates to my work.  But I really have no clue on what a publisher needs to know about me in order to assess my qualifications as a professional writer.  In all honesty the best work reference that I have to offer is my mom, Mary Wagner (contact info available upon request).  Mom has coined me the master storyteller (got to love a mom for the ultimate confidence boost) and it was my mom who encouraged me to write my stories, which ultimately resulted in my blog.  As far as writing style, I would personally describe my style as a storyteller and memory collector with the spin of a columnist.

The bottom line is that I have a passion for writing.  I always have.  I was the little girl who read all the time and wrote stories in my free time.  I had been offered a college scholarship to go to an art school, but my dad convinced me to go for the safe (and salaried) accounting route.  And I can honestly tell you that have no regrets in my career choice.  Of note is my accomplishment of being a published author.  As a college freshman, my "Composition and Critical Thinking" professor submitted one of my class essays to our college textbook publisher.  It was then chosen to be published as a sample essay in their future textbooks.  But I must admit that I really haven’t done much writing the last 20+ post-college years other than work memos, journaling my daily family life, and writing to clear my thoughts at times.  This all changed over a year ago when I began my blog.  Through our new world of blogging and instant relaying of the written word via the Internet, smart phones, I-Pads, etc…, a writing platform has emerged that is nothing short of intoxicating to me.

What I can tell you is that I love to write because I get no greater satisfaction than someone feeling the inflection of my emotion in my stories and relating to my feelings within their own lives.  It’s when the reader somehow, someway feels real individual emotions in themselves that I am inspired to keep writing.  I am a firm believer that simply being human and expressing our unique life stories is a WAY better read than the repetitive junk splashed in the tabloid outlets.  All of our ordinary lives collectively matter and are of true importance; not the cast of characters played out in our Yahoo news feeds.

So now that you have my one work reference (my mom), my writing history, and my portfolio of stories (all on my blog site: sandyalane.blogspot.com); I believe the next part is where I tell you why I am interested in taking my writing to the next level and why I should be up for consideration for future publishing. Since I am a self-described storyteller, I will use a story that best articulates what fills my heart and drives me to express myself through writing.

This particular story begins over twenty years ago when I lost a close friend who died tragically at a young age.  At the time of his death, I was overcome with emotion and very much wanted to do something for his grieving family.  I wanted them to know that they had an awesome son who had a huge impact on many lives, including mine.  As I have always best expressed myself in the written word, I wanted to write them a letter.  Those who were born innately to write can understand this feeling.  When spoken words make no sense, thoughts are spinning, and emotions high; writing somehow releases all of these emotions and miraculously brings order back to the world again.  But twenty years ago, this would have meant a long hand written or typed letter to be mailed through the US Postal system.  I thought about it a great deal and rehashed many stories in my mind deemed worthy to share with his family, but never executed on the letter.  A written letter just never felt right and thus never happened.

Fast forward to 2010 and I am introduced to blogging by a young cousin during a casual conversation at a family wedding.  I enjoyed reading her blog and inquired about the blog site set-up complexity.  She assured me that even a forty-three year old woman would be a few computer key strokes away from accomplishing this feat.  So I started my blog with a few meager postings (a bit of testing the water).  Then after running across a picture of my deceased friend, B.L., memories of my desire to write about him from years past filled my heart.  So in the middle of an afternoon on a weekday last March, I randomly started writing this long overdue letter; a collection of memories.  And I felt an incredible sense of relief and emotion as I finished this blog story and I pushed the button to “post”.  The letter that sat in the back of my mind for twenty years had finally been delivered.

The result of my blog post on B.L. was a flood of e-mails, messages, and heartfelt sharing of this lost friend.  I received the most touching e-mails from his parents, siblings, friends, nieces and nephews (some of which had really never known him).  Somehow my story inflected the emotion I was feeling and portrayed what was in my heart on the spirit of this great human life.  This was the start of what motivated me to keep writing and the beginning of my journey of sharing stories and experiences.  The responses I would get from the reader were a sense of connection.  Last week I received the following response to my B.L. blog, "I am a high school friend of BLs and truly loved him. I miss him all of the time. I carry a letter in my wallet that he wrote to me when we were both in college. I found this blog by accident and it made my day. Thank you and God bless you!” Reading this posting made my day and got me back on the computer writing again.

So what motivates me to write is very simple.  I get no greater writer's “high” than in knowing someone read what I wrote and felt a real and genuine connection through my story to their own life.  Having my stories somehow trigger a memory or create an emotion that feels real and meaningful to others is what keeps me writing. 

One might ask, what I am looking to accomplish by taking my blog to the next level?  I am not looking for a job change.  I have a great day job that I enjoy very much.  And I have also been blessed with an incredible circle of family and friends that bring much happiness to my daily life.  So I am not looking for a new job or to fill a void in my life.  I simply want to share with those who can relate my stories to their own life journey.  That's it. 

Now you should have everything...my resume, references, portfolio, writing history, and letter of interest.  Please let me know if you have any questions.  And also feel free to be my FaceBook friend or a Follower to my blog.  I am a firm believer that one can ever have too many friends :)

Warmest Regards,

Sandy Lane



Grant snapped this pix of me doing my writing thing :)



Christmas Magic



I am pretty sure my brother, Matt, believed in Santa
as he tore open his gift and my parents looked on (circa ~ 1966)

I have never believed in Santa. <sigh>.  Okay, I said it.  This is a dark secret of my childhood that I don't like to talk about.  I really have no memory of ever believing.  My mom tells me that on my second Christmas I crawled out of my crib before anyone else was up and opened most of the presents under the tree.  My vague recollection of this event isn't about the magic of Santa, but only of the pretty wrapping paper.  Our next door neighbor boy, Michael Wischnewski, told me there was no Santa Claus.  I was three, he was thirteen, and my mom was furious.  Nope...no memories for me of lying in bed on Christmas Eve, waiting in exhilaration for Santa as visions of sugar plums danced in my head. <sigh again>.



Wagner Christmas 1969
(notice Matt's gun holster)

That being said, I do remember trying really hard to believe as I was growing up and saw my friends experiencing the magic of Santa Claus.  I tried everything to convince myself that this fanciful man existed.  I watched "Miracle of 34th Street" over and over, wanting to be little Susan Walker and defend the existence of Kris Kringle.  And although I did get close to believing I believed, I am quite sure that it was not the same as the real thing.  But as with other tragedies we experience in life, I survived, and above it all; I still have great memories of Christmas' past.  And unlike Michael Wischnewski, this secret was safe with me.  No one had their childhood dreams squandered by my running of the mouth.  I just sat back in silence knowing the truth.



Christmas was a big deal at my house growing up.  My mom played Christmas songs from her vinyl record collection while cooking, cleaning, and tending to me and my brothers.  Her favorites included Bing Crosby, Nat King Cole, and Andy Williams.  I still don't get why the Michael Bolten types have any right to carry tunes that were so eloquently crooned by their predecessors.  Any Christmas song recorded post the 1960's is nothing short of a shame in my book.  And with chronic reminders of a white Christmas and sleigh bells as background music, my brothers and I would spend countless hours leafing through the JC Penney catalog, expanding our Christmas list.  The Christmas edition would arrive in early fall and would be the center of many feuds regarding "whose turn" and "who is hiding the catalog...MOM!!!"  Those days are definitely a far cry from today's holiday on-line shopping adventures and Black Friday craziness.

My brothers, Matt and Mark, are just short of eleven months apart.  I arrived on the scene seventeen months after Mark.  In school we fell one year after each other.  As small children, we were as thick as thieves, but fought like cats and dogs.  I believe it is fair to say that I could hold my own, but had the benefit of being faster than Mark and quick to lock myself in the bathroom when trying to survive against Matt.  When we were around the 9 to11 year-old age span and our parents were convinced that we could fend for ourselves, we were allowed to stay home alone.  Mom and Dad would get dressed up and after church travel to neighboring LeMars to enjoy a quiet dinner together at Archie's Waeside.  Matt, Mark and I were a sneaky trio (ringleader = Matt...probably) and would get into all kinds of mischief on these nights of parental freedom.


Grandpa & Grandma Gib decorated the front of their house each year
with a life-size light up nativity


During the days leading up to Christmas on our "home alone" nights, our primary goal was to find our hidden Christmas gifts (obviously Michael Wischnewski had gotten a hold of my brothers too).  We tore up every cranny of the house until we found our treasured presents.  Although my mom was one step ahead of us as she immediately wrapped the presents before hiding them away, this tactic did not stop my brothers.  Mark had perfected the use of a butter knife in carefully releasing the scotch tape and opening the gift with no evidence of tampering post re-wrap.  We would play with our toys for hours until we knew it was time to cover our tracks.  One year the boys got matching John Deere mini motorized snowmobiles.  They were so thrilled after finding these treasures in early December that Mark made the fatal misstep of not counting his crime tools post-use of the butter knife technique.  On Christmas morning as Mark went into his game day theatrics of thrill and amazement of receiving such a fine gift; the butter knife fell out of his wrapped present before the snowmobile was revealed.  This confirmed my mom's suspicions which started with Matt asking the night before if he could take his new Detroit Lions football helmet to Grandma Doc's on Christmas Eve.  Since Matt had yet to open this gift and now Mark's gift produced a butter knife that was definitely not in the equation as she wrapped the present, her CSI skills of the 70's led her to believe foul play.  Gifts were locked in the cedar chest in years following and our late night pre-Christmas romps were over.

Our family tradition included Christmas Eve on the farm at Grandpa and Grandma Doc's and then Christmas Day at Grandma and Grandpa Gib's after opening our own gifts at home.  These were the days when you would receive as many homemade gifts as store bought ones.  It was common to sew, knit, bake, and draw homemade Christmas treasures.  My Grandma Gib sewed beautiful quilts for me that still are in my proud possession.  Grandma Doc always had grand ideas, but had a tendency to wait until the last minute until she executed on her plan.  On my third Christmas she made me my doll, Paper.  Paper (made out of cloth, but given the name from a 3 year-old imagination) came with yellow yarn hair, embroidered eyes, snap calico overalls, and hand sewn leather shoes.  In true Grandma nature, we could hear her in the den sewing the final stitches onto my treasured dolly as we all waited for dinner to be served and presents to be opened.  The next year she made me my dog, Sadie (an original name given by me after their farm dog).  I still have both of these favorite gifts in my possession; with a few patches added by Grandma over the years to preserve my stuffed friends.

Mom let us display our favorite stuffed animals for this pix.  Sadie sits in front of me.

Michael Wischnewski was the son of Bruno and Elfriede, immigrants from Germany and owners of our local jewelry store, Bruno's Jewelry.  Each year my brothers and I would patronize Bruno's as well as the corner dime store in selecting Christmas gifts for each other and pooling our money for our parents.  We would take turns going into the jewelry store to choose items deemed special and unique as the other two of our trio would wait their turn outside, promising not watch through the shop window.  Gifts included items such as piggy banks, thimbles, engraved spoons, and whatever trinkets Elfriede could find for us within our budget.  Bruno would watch from behind the glass display cases, not cracking a smile.  Gifts for mom included charms and dad, a coffee cup.  They were always wrapped by Elfriede in beautiful paper which I am sure added to the allure of wanting to buy our Christmas purchases there rather than the dime store.

One Saturday night in December before Christmas, we were greeted by Grandpa Gib as we walked home from church in the dark.  "I have a surprise for you," he told my brothers and me.  "Jump in the car."  After glancing at Dad for approval, we bustled into the back seat of his sedan.  Our pleas on hearing his surprise were given no more response then the smile that shown on his face.  He pulled into the dark alley next to the town co-op.  Grandpa worked at the co-op, so parking there did not come as a surprise, but the adventure that followed did.  Through a back door to the grain elevator, we followed our grandpa who led us through the dark passageways, flashlight in hand.  As we stepped on to the elevator shaft, Grandpa told us to hold on as we were lifted to heights we had never been.  My brothers and I kept looking at each other trying to figure out where this adventure was taking us until Matt solved the mystery.  "The star!  Grandpa is taking us to the star!!"  You see, atop the grain elevator shines the biggest, brightest star each Christmas season.  As children, we would gaze at this star in wonder as though it was the star of Bethlehem.  It shone high in the sky with a brilliancy befitting of Baby Jesus.

After stepping off the creaky elevator, Grandpa led us up a series of steps.  It felt incrediably dangerous at the time, but I am sure this was the analysis of a nine year old brain as my grandpa would not have put us in harm's way.  As we reached the top and climbed out into the fresh air, we saw the most brilliant sight...the star shining big and bright just inches from us.  Once we caught our breath and turned to see our little town from a height that soared high above the church steeple, I looked at my brothers and saw in their eyes a look of amazement and wonder.  Not a word was spoken as we gazed around us and took in the magic of our adventure.  I looked at my grandpa and saw him watching us with what appeared to be pure and uninhibited joy.  We did not find Santa Claus on top of the elevator that December night, but we did find the true meaning of Christmas in the shining star and in sharing a moment in time together.  In my lifetime I have experienced a magic of Christmas greater than any red suit or shiny nosed reindeer...the magic is in the blessing of the Nativity and in the love of a family.

Brad Lane...gone, but not forgotten

Brad died on December 1, 2007.  Although it has been four years, many details from the days following his death feel like yesterday.  This is especially true each year as we reflect on the anniversary of his passing.  Somehow that fateful time becomes a raw memory imbedded in the mind with a void that grows bigger in the heart as this day passes.  I see it in the eyes of his family and in their words of encouragement to each other as they cope to get through and rally as a family.  That is the Lane way…cope, love, persevere together.  As this anniversary is now behind us, the memories burn bright again.  And we all know that memories come in many shapes and sizes.  For the Lane’s, memories are carried in the good; that of a lovable brother, uncle, son and in the bad; the painful memories of losing Brad.

What began as a very ordinary Saturday in Nebraska, one that most of us have experienced a hundred times over, turned into a day that changed our lives forever.  A rain hit the ground that early morning and turned into a mild ice storm.  With resolve under the cloudy skies and slippery roads, I ventured out to follow my Saturday gym routine.  My family stayed back at home in different stages of sleep and sleepiness with the beginnings of our seemingly Saturday normalcy.  But this day quickly turned into all but normal.  In between workout reps, I picked up my phone and noticed several missed calls from home.   “Probably the boys wanting me to pick up donuts on my way home,” I thought.  Scott answered my call back with a statement that was so surreal at the time that I couldn’t even comprehend who he was referring to.  “Brad is dead”.  After a very confusing conversation that followed, I was aware that the “Brad” Scott was referring to was his younger brother.  Brad Lane had died that morning; just four days shy of his fortieth birthday.

I actually knew Brad before I knew Scott as I was introduced to most of the Lane family in 1986 while a pregnant Robbie’s loyal sidekick and trusted friend.  I remember my first introduction to this crew was a framed family picture that Robbie proudly had on display in her dorm room.  This treasure had the Lane kids sitting stacked one after another up a playground slide with heads peaking out either side.  The parents sat proudly at the top of their brood.  Robbie would recite their names to me and point out their individual differences and similarities.  I was intrigued by these smiling toe heads from the get go and before I had even met them.  The Lane clan was a cross between the “Brady Bunch” and “Eight is Enough” (but with nine kids instead of eight).  And Brad was the fun loving brother.  He was always the one to get the first laugh and a charmer with his boyish grin.  He had a sense of genuineness to him that made you instantly feel at ease.  I personally experienced this unconditional acceptance as he immediately received me as “one of them”.  I felt like a Lane girl from day one.  For Brad, being Lane and being Otis (Brad’s family nickname) meant acceptance and putting others before himself.  Brad never knew a stranger.

Brad and I with Jason and Jennifer...visiting my Aunt Joan & friends :)

We buried Brad on a Wednesday.  It was a cold day with overcast skies.  As we were still trying to make sense out of the unthinkable, there was a general feeling among family similar to that of a dull ache.  We didn’t know the answers and couldn’t even begin to put our arms around the reality of this loss.  But the family pulled together as we cared for the many grandchildren, made funeral arrangements, and made many trips to the airport with arms open to mourning out-of-state family.  Just as this large crew came together for the multitude of celebrations over the years, they were now preparing to bury their son and brother as a unified family.

People came to the wake and the funeral in masses.  Devotion and love toward the Lane’s was evidenced by the number of people who had come to pay their respects to a family that had always continuously given of themselves.  As Cookie and Russ unselfishly shared their love of life with those they encountered, these same people were now overwhelmingly supporting them.  All who know the Lane’s know that they are a family who would give you the shirt off their back.  And they would do this knowing there was no spare shirt in their drawer to replace it.  I have had the benefit of being a part of this family for over half of my life and being “raised” Lane during my young adult years.   Through this blessing, I have learned many great lessons of the heart and the value of being a part of a family that continually gives.

 There is a saying that people don’t always remember exact words or actions, but they always remember how they felt.  This best describes Brad’s funeral.  I don’t remember the exact readings nor do I remember who I sat beside, but I do remember holding on to each other as we sobbed with tears that never stopped flowing.  I remember feeling a huge sense of sadness and loss, but also a sense of complete family unity.  I remember all of us watching closely over grandchildren and reaching out to hold them as we saw them struggling during the service.  I remember watching my sons cry not only for a lost uncle they adored, but for their broken father and bereaved grandparents.  There was a hole that was left in the heart of a family that can never be replaced.

Fr. Don left a mark on this mourning family with the most amazing sermon from the heart; a true gift to the Lane’s.  As a long-time family friend, Fr. Don Shane watched the Lane children grow up.  He celebrated mass with the Lane Family filling an entire row at church.  He spent time in their home, baptized their grandchildren, and shared many laughs with this family full of an abundance of family humor.  He spoke from the heart with no focus on the “whys” of Brad’s death.   Although I may not remember the exact words, I can tell you that what he said moved me and brought comfort to a family who knew the words he spoke to be true.  “Many families are wealthy.  Most would think this to be a monetary assessment.  I am here to tell you that the Lane’s are a family of wealth.  Their wealth is in kindness and love.  They have richness in a deep and unconditional love for each other and all who are privileged to be part of their circle.  Brad was a part of this love and knew this love.  This family grieving in front of me is the wealthiest family I know.”

The Lane Clan...sometime in the 80's

Brad was buried on his fortieth birthday.  We had finished the funeral luncheon and had invited family to gather at our house.  No one was really ready to part and the Lane way is to be together and share time together…pictures, memories, conversation, and always a lot of great food.  So that is what we did.  We packed up cakes and food that had been dropped off by many friends and traveled to West Omaha as we opened our home to anyone who wanted to join us.

As we sat in unity at our house, strange events were unfolding in Omaha.  There was a random mass shooting by a lone gunman at the Omaha Von Maur department store.  There were many dead and wounded with many more questions as to the whys and hows.  We were glued to the television set at my home trying to piece together yet another tragedy in our community after an already emotion-filled day.  The following day when the details on the timeline of shooter entry and killings were depicted in the paper, I was quickly aware of a blessing bestowed on me.

The weekend before Brad died I had purchase a little black Christmas dress at Von Maur.  The day before Brad died I noticed the length of the hanging dress in my closet, tags intact, and deemed it too long for my taste.  I had placed the dress in the back of my vehicle making a mental note that I would return it the next week on my way to an out of town client meeting.  You see, as the forever planner, I had mapped my route to my future client meeting and knew a stop by Von Maur in route would both be multi-tasking at its best and an avoidance of the weekend mall crowds.

The day after the funeral and shootings, I noticed the forgotten bag in the back of my car.  The timeline of my aborted plan quickly surged through me as I compared it to the actual series events that transpired over the previous 24 hours.  My client meeting was canceled as it was on the same day as Brad’s funeral.  Based on my scheduled meeting time, if it wasn’t for Brad’s funeral, I would have been at the customer service counter of Von Maur at the exact time that several people were killed and critically wounded by the young gunman.   Although I haven’t shared this Godwink story with many people, I have always felt in my heart that Brad somehow saved my life on that fateful day.  And although this is a far-fetched thought, it is something that I will always hold in my heart to be true.  Brad was a Lane, tried and true, and that’s what Lane’s do; they give you the shirt off of their back and put their family first.

The reality is that the void of Brad’s loss will never be filled and the hole in the heart of the Lane Family never replaced.  Regardless of his journey; a child, brother, son, uncle was taken from this family.  He was a kind heart that we all so desperately wish would have had one more chance at life.  But that is not a decision of man, but of our God.  Our blessing stays with us in our memories and in the smiling loving faces of the many nieces and nephews who each carry on a piece of Uncle Brad in their hearts.  I can picture him now with his boyish grin looking down at all of us from heaven.   The innocent reality in Brad was that he never judged others and gave of himself with all that he could offer.  And we all know that the heart and the love of a family is the most valuable asset of any individual.  It is this wealth that makes us whole.  Although Brad’s life was short and his accomplishments few by the naked eye, his sharing of kindness and love was a big contribution to a great family legacy.  And the Lane family legacy will continue to make a difference in this world one person at a time.