THE KITE

Today was another glorious, clear, sunny and warm October day on St. George Island. After the morning rain passed and took the fog with it, we were left with another perfect moment for fishing and flying our kite. We made it to the beach with a surf rod and reel, a pound of bait shrimp, and our kite.

The kite was nearly new, having been brought back from a colorful shop in New Orleans. For many years, I had passed that elusive little shop on the square, but on one particular day about a year ago, the red, green, and black streamers attached to a festive, fat ladybug were too good to pass up. And finally, it would make it's first serious flight in the gusty wind off the gulf.

We baited our hook and let Nolan begin the afternoon fishing for whatever would snap up the shrimp appetizer. Ellie-Dot's tiny fist clutched the kite string as we carefully fed it out, streamers flying three feet behind the bright red-spotted bug. Her face brown as caramel, Ellie-Dot peered gleefully as the kite rose ten, then fifty feet in the air.

And then it happened. She lost it, just let go of the string with a hearty gusty wind.

And heavens, that kite flew! The red string skipped across the sand, three pair of eyes staring in shock as the beautiful colors flew unfettered across the top of a row of bright shotgun houses framing the back edge of the beach. The tears came fiercely and in torrents, a cacophony of wailing reaching my ears as I instantly flew across the sand in my bare feet, shedding all the weight slowing down my pursuit of the kite that I already knew was gone forever.

It was futile. The two children were still wailing, hoping desperately that I had a plan to retrieve their kite. There are some things that a mommy just can't fix, and the idea that our beautiful kite was gone for good, was just too much for their fresh hearts to bear. They clung to each other crying, the three of us mourning the loss in a tight hug. Finally, after fifteen minutes, it was over. Nolan and Ellie-Dot took deep breaths, and morosely wandered over to their half-built sandcastle and dispiritedly sat down in the sand in an attempt to cope with what was, in the mind of four year olds, a tragic event.

Some minutes later, I saw a young lady stumbling up a sand pathway through the sea oats. She appeared to be disheveled and a little tired, clutching her straw hat in her left hand. About twenty-five years old, she was small with dark hair that I could see better as she moved closer to me. It finally occurred that she was coming to us. She was out of breath and bent over.

"My"...gasp "My boyfriend..." gasp gasp "got....puff your puff....kite".

It was one of those moments so random, so unbelievable that it took several seconds to absorb what happened.

I could hardly believe my ears! That kite was long, long gone! The wind must have been gusting 20 knots, and it scraped the tops of 3-story houses when it flew away. There was just no way.

"My boyfriend saw what happened, and we saw your children crying. He just took off running until the kite stopped in a tree across the island. He climbed the tree to get your kite. He's on his way back and we didn't want you to leave!"

I was incredulous. Such an act of love and generosity just couldn't be true, and it couldn't happen to us. But it did.

Two minutes later, a thin, very lean young black man with dredlocks and New Yorkish square glasses emerged over the sea oat path. He was carrying our kite, streamers fluttering behind him. He also wore a big smile that I could see from the beach.

The children whooped. Ellie-Dot ran up to our new friend, Van, and gave him an enormous hug. He hugged her back and laughed unabashedly.

Turns out, they were on the island for Valerie, the young girl, to run the marathon. They lived five hours apart, and were very much in love. Sweet, fresh love. And kindness to strangers.

I tried to give them some gas money to help get them back to the Carolinas. They adamantly declined, on the basis, I suppose, that we'd return the love and the favor one day to someone else in need. We wished them well, thanked them as generously as we knew how, and sent them on their way with a plea to send their emails so we could stay in contact.

We flew our New Orleans kite all afternoon, carefully, and joyfully.

Our children will never, ever forget the lesson of today. That people are friends we have yet to meet, people are good, and someone, somewhere, when we don't even know it, someone has our backs. For that, we are thankful.

I Want My Children To Learn Because of Me, Not In Spite Of Me

I once had an old, crusty flight instructor by the name of Frank Bogard. He was my check airman, and a bit of a surrogate grandfather to me in my days of learning how to fly.

Frank didn't just help me learn how to fly, he charged me with a duty that has reached well beyond the confines of the cockpit. It was a powerful message then, and moreso after I inherited three children, and had two more.

It happened on an unlikely day, right after my multi-engine checkride. It was no overstatement to use the word "disastrous" to describe that checkride, perhaps stopping just short enough to utter the word, since I did get my twin engine certification that day. We took off, and air traffic control was working an emergency. "November Niner three kilo Bravo, maintain between the 030 radial and the o50 radial from the Memphis Vortac, between altitudes of two thousand and three thousand one hundred feet, and maintain norad for fifteen minutes, squawk zero three zero five, ident, and hold readback until further advised". I was behind the curve before I even realized there WAS a curve. And that's a nasty place to be on a checkride, or anytime for that matter in an airplane.

And Frank killed an engine on me about right then. OUCH.

I very proudly and arrogantly chose to train in a 55 Baron for my twin. The baron compared to say, a Duchess, is like comparing a bicycle to say.....a crotchrocket. Maybe not so divergent, but you get the point.

When the engine dies on a Baron, the other engine becomes your worst nightmare. Adding to the disaster marching on, I stand about five feet tall and at the time was 120 lbs. The Baron needed a man sized leg to account for torque and roll, and it was all I could do to keep us greasy side down. Ah, those were the days living on the edge.

We landed, and Frank Bogard, master of the fly, smiled, ruffled my hair (yep, like a 13 year old!), and muttered, "You did good!". After he issued my ticket, we talked about the next ride, the Certified Flight Instructor certification. I wondered if I would be good teacher.

"Well, Jan, I'll just say this. Your students can learn BECAUSE of you, or they can learn IN SPITE of you. And it isn't a popularity contest. It's entirely up to you." I tried to live up to that standard for the last 15 years, coming to understand that Frank was right. I haven't always been popular in my teaching methods. I have probably suffered more verbal abuse that I am thankful to not have heard about. But in the end, an infamous, well-respected and loved teacher like Frank Bogard, can't be wrong. The fruits of his labor, prove it. And I hope our fruits will emerge in our children.

I hope that somewhere down the line, besides teaching all the normal stuff like plants, and birth, and ABC's, and "When the Saints Go Marching In", that all our kids get the most important stuff because of me, and because of their loving father, Rob, and not in spite of us. Like honesty. And truth. And commitment. And involvement. And empathy with a fine ear. And sympathy. And sensitivity. And giving....in a world without regard for color; or gender; or other factors that used to set us apart.

I hope we teach them that love comes from a lot of different people, and none of those people take anything away from us.

I hope we teach them that bad-talk about other people, is unnecessary and ugly and destructive and it poisons their heads and their hearts. And though in our extremely powerful positions as Mom and Dad, we may succeed in garnering and fostering their hate and anger to collaborate our positions, that there is no victory because we have cost our children the freedom to love, appreciate, embrace, and respect. It's an abuse of our parenting responsibilities, of the worst kind.

I hope they learn that the best way up, is help someone out. Promote other people A LOT.

And to try to find a way to make someone's life just a little bit easier. And to look for it, don't wait for it to come crawling to them.

I hope we will teach them when it's not only ok to take a stand - it's sometimes necessary. And to not worry when someone doesn't like it, because at the end of the day, you are true to yourself and your conscience and that's all that matters.

I pray that we teach them to practice a faith, regardless of their chosen religion.

I hope they learn that knockdown doesn't mean knockout.

I hope they learn that joy is about finding something that turns you on, and figuring out how to pay your bills with it.

I hope they learn to skip around the sides of the box, because boxes are just.....boxes.

I hope they take a sledgehammer to the glass ceiling.

I hope they never need a herd to shape their thoughts; and that they have the courage to depart when the herd is moving off the proverbial ledge. Herds have led a lot of good people to do terrible things.

I hope they learn that people who fight...have a good thing going. It's problem confrontation and resolution in one bag. And that while it may look like a blender, at least it's getting the job done. I hope they see what the other side of a storm looks like...calm, bright, clear and clean.

And I hope that they will contribute to this earth at least 51 percent of what they take, because even one percent contribution, from ever living being, is a victory.

I hope they are taught that while healthy fear is normal, unhealthy fear has to be beaten with a stick....nearly every day.

I hope we teach them to love art - and to look beyond the rudimentary initial findings to discover the beauty that lies in a complex web beneath the surface.

And to disregard the bank account in search of who one really is.

And to always, always ask why something is....and to find an answer.

I hope that when our kids are confronted with problems, they will find the people who know the most about the problem. There, they will find an answer, a solution, and a plan.

I hope we teach our kids to know what is going on in the world.

And to always ask for the other side of an argument. Without it, opinions are instantly invalidated for one set of facts are manipulated, designed, propagandized, and delivered in a way to best persuade according to personal agendas - and do not ever reflect the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

And to accept a failure, learn something important from it, make necessary changes, and go at it again.

And to be IN LIVING COLOR, and not black and white. Some of the most important things I've seen, have been because the moment was paused for me to ponder.

And to know when you've reached the end of your rope, and that you make it so that the drop off is a lovely beach and an ocean of lung-and heart-cleansing spray to unstick the head. And if it isn't naturally there....find it. It's our job to know where our reset button lies.

And that life isn't always happy.

But it isn't always sad.

And the parts of it that are happy, faaar outweigh the sad. And if it doesn't, it's time for a pivotal shift in thinking and doing.

And that saying "sorry" sometimes is good enough....and sometimes it isn't. Sometimes it just takes more.

It's important to know when "Sorry" is enough.
And when it isn't.

I hope we teach our children that there are times when nothing else matters, except that one thing. And you need to be there, no matter what. And if you do that for friends and family, you know when your time comes, and you need someone no matter what, you are covered.

I hope we teach our children to celebrate birthdays big, because the day of birth is indeed, a day to drop everything an honor a person who has changed our lives.

I hope we teach them that mourning hurts, but it's a sign that you have something invested.
And that if you don't, you....probably won't.

I hope they learn that emotion many times, steers us far, far away from "the right thing"; and that oftentimes, emotion must be downshifted to second place, and the head needs to take the driver's seat.

Hopefully we will teach them that their ideas of "the way things should be" , may only meet a short term, short sighted goal of self-satisfaction, where in the wisdom of a parent, a different decision was and should be made to uphold a more important, long term goal.

And that they accept that many times, our wisdom exercised (though the may not like it), is probably for the good of a loftier goal.

I hope they will seek to learn from the best.

And that giving up is only acceptable in the most exacerbated of circumstances.

I hope they learn that sometimes, collateral damage will occur when "doing the right thing", and it may hurt personally....but the benefit far outweighs the personal cost. And the personal cost is ALWAYS the last thing on the list to worry about.

I hope they learn that asking a lot of them is a way of making them independent and self-sufficient....which is why we are parents in the first place. And that it is a great expression of love.

and finally,

I hope they learn that there are times we may not have loved them in the exact way they wanted to be loved, but that it was love no matter what wrapper it came in, and maybe they will lower the bar to know that we did the very best we could...even when it didn't quite seem to measure up.

And that they will forgive us for our shortcomings, as they will hope their children will do, when we are finally, at last, Grandparents.

My Gift from Nathan Hughes

Today one of "those" phone calls came from my beloved sister, Wendy. It the kind that make your heart plummet to your toes, and your blood run cold and slow. It robs the breath sure as deep winter freeze, and you can't believe your ears.

Nathan was gone for good. Beautiful, blue-eyed Nathan. The child I'd babysat, who hung from the light fixture and laughed manically, eyes twinkling with devilishness.

Fast forward twenty-five years later, Easter Sunday morning at 8 a.m.

"Hey Jan, how is Ellie-Dot? She doing better?"

What a sweet, loving, kind thing to do. Nathan was keeping up with Ellie-Dot, who'd had a bad time in the ICU lately. And on Easter Sunday, nonetheless.

I was joyful to hear someone ask about my baby!

And I sure wanted to hear how things were with Nathan. New marriage, stepchildren...

"She is good! Thanks for asking....details of her care...and then..."How are things with you?"

Anyone who knows me knows that when I ask how you are, I don't do it as a salutation in passing. It's not a surface type of greeting, just to pass the time. I ask because I WANT TO KNOW. I WANT TO HEAR. I NEED DETAILS....Because after all, if "my people" aren't good, then surely it can be fixed.

"That's Good To Hear", Nathan wrote Sunday night. "Things are fine"....my childhood friend responded.

And that was it for me. He was sailing along fine. Manageable waters that didn't need extra attention, nurturing, coddling, prodding, and counsel that sometimes I tend to give a little too freely. I'd set the hook to reel him in, if he just needed to talk.

My sweet friend is gone now. Something I missed in his line, "Things are fine". Things weren't fine, and God knows, I should have seen it. Somehow, some way.

It is with deep grief and profound sadness, that as I sit writing this, that in his death, I realize I have been given an astonishing and extraordinary gift by this man Nathan Hughes. In one of his very last comments, he did two things.

He checked on my sick baby.

And he spared me the pain and difficulty of trying to help him out of a terrible place by telling perhaps the last loving lie of his life.

Because he didn't want to worry me.

I will always, always cherish this gift, and recognize the beauty of it. I always thought I knew, but now I know for sure...what true selflessness is.

Goodbye beautiful Nathan. Your treasure will be with me for the rest of my life. I'll be sure to pass it down to my children, so that your selflessness won't be wasted on me.

When Does Training Start

Parents of young children ask me often, "When do I need to start my son/daughter in on flying lessons?" My answer, well founded in the science of human behavior, is "Immediately". As soon as possible.

Even if that child does not meet age qualifications to satisfy the Federal Aviation Administration, it matters not.

What we are really asking here is "How soon do we ward off bad habits?"

The laws of primacy rule that once a bad habit is embraced, it is extremely difficult to unseat. Not only must you write over that poorly learned habit, you must also be aware that it can and will rear it's ugly head in times of stress and inattention.

And this doesn't only apply to aviation. It applies to learning music; driving a car; sports; skiing, and just about any other activity that requires any skill.

Once improperly learned, it costs a fantastic amount of money to "unlearn" it.

Case and point. I once had a very, very smart student who couldn't land the plane worth a darn. And he could do everything else with astonishing precision. One day, over a cup of coffee I asked him what his vision of the glide slope was. And he showed me a nose-high, tail low approach. Now, that's PERFECT for an Airbus that he planned to fly in fifteen years, but was of absolutely no value in general aviation.

He LEARNED this improperly by watching airliners land; applied it; relied upon it; believed in it; and it cost him an extra $1,000.00 in flight time to unseat that poorly learned idea.

Get them started as soon as possible! The law of primacy says if you don't, it will come back to bite you in the pocket....hard.

The Way Things Should Be

Our son, Nolan came down stairs this morning to find a drum set. Santa had dropped through the chimney and eaten the pound cake, marshmallows and demolished a can of coke that our children left in anticipation of his visit. Once again, he took care of all five kids.

Nolan didn't seem surprised to see the beloved drum set he'd been asking for since June.

Each time he was asked what Santa was bringing him, he'd state emphatically "Drum Set". He ran the words together so they came out as one. "Drum Set". And he never waivered. Three years old, and he already knows what he wants out of life....or at least out of Santa.

When he saw the drum set, he didn't shriek. His eyes didn't widen and shimmer with glee. He didn't race over to the set, astonished that Santa had once again, remembered him as one of the good boys. No shock. No giddiness.

I way overthought this over my morning Duncan Donuts coffee. It appeared as if Nolan knew he'd been good, and of course! It's the way things should be, and nothing inbetween. It was simple. He'd been good. He wanted a drum set. Santa took care of good little boys, and our son trusted that it would all work out the way it was supposed to. He trusted, and therefore, it was no surprise. It was, quite simply, the way thing should be.

It isn't always that way, though. We know of one person this morning, who trusted that things would work out the way they are supposed to. And they didn't. And it cost him a lot. We mourn when our trust is shattered, because it would be like my son coming downstairs, certain that things work out....only to find that his drum set isn't there. Suddenly, all is askew. Everything he knows about life is disrupted, and it's a shock. And in some way, he'd be changed.

My hope is that the grown up little boy who didn't get his drum set, gets it soon. Because above all things, there should be a happy ending. And the grinch shouldn't win.

And like my son, I believe with all my heart, that Santa is going to come through. I believe, indeed, that there is one more drum set awaiting delivery before the week is out.

Merry Christmas, once again.

And Update, The Blind Side

Last night, the doorbell rang. Karen and Bill Lemmons dropped off dishes and silverware....and wash detergent. Merry Christmas to them, and one day I'll beg Karen to reveal where she gets the enormous amount of energy that compels her to be awake and working, when the rest of the world is asleep?????

Jeff and Cheryl Williams, our dear friends who have saved our kids' lives a number of times (exaggerated, but not so much!), dropped off a bag of goods and groceries. With two small kids in their house, and not a minute to spare, they have given.

And Bruce and Dyanna - adding to that turkey dinner, more groceries and household items.

To all our dear friends, we are thankful that you've dipped into your reserves to help us help Mimi Carpenter and her kids. Christmas 2009 will be one of abundance for them - for us, and for you all.

Thank-you on behalf of the Carpenter family.

The Blind Side.....and Merry Christmas

There is a scene in the "Blind Side", that changed everything. It was a small moment, that caused a tectonic shift in the life of both the Toueys and Michael Orr, and were you to have blinked, you'd have missed it. And if Mrs. Touey had blinked, or hesitated, or flat out rejected it....the Blind Side wouldn't have been. And Michael Orr would still be struggling in the ghetto, starving, his potential wasting away.

When Mrs. Touey drove by Michael Orr, that poor thing, walking in the too-cold drizzle rubbing his substantial arms, unable to keep warm, she could have missed the moment, and drove on. The full force of humanity was laid bare, unadorned, right in front of her. And in a split second, her choices were clear - do something, or do nothing. Do something.....or do nothing. Doing something was uncomfortable. Doing nothing was bound to be uncomfortable.

Part of Mrs. Toueys delimma, lie in whether she had an understanding of why she wanted to help. Some people are short-term "do gooders", who give for personal satisfaction, and once the conscience is assauged, they move on to throw a few dimes in another direction. For others, it is a committment for change to make someone's life, a little bit easier. Both gestures probably matter in some way - but doing nothing matters in a much bigger way, sadly. Mrs. Touey accepted one simple principle - someone needed help, and she had the means and the way. With a bucketful of courage, the Touey family was well on its way to changing lives. Thank-God for her, and for Michael Orr, that she didn't miss the moment.


Our "Blind Side" came one day almost a decade ago, when Dr. Katherine Lawson, our next door neighbor, called us five days before Christmas. "There has been a shooting, and this family is without a Dad, and a Christmas." And in a course of one minute, Mimi Carpenter and her brood of five children, came into our lives. We panicked and flew into a flurry of buying for her kids. I had no idea what we were facing. Rob, having worked stories in "that part of town", smiled grimly and just said "Ok", knowing that any further discussion was useless. We were on a course not destined to jump the tracks any time soon. His sight picture was much better honed than mine, and yet in an act of love and trust, my beautiful and insightful husband did not hesitate. He became the engineer of the project.

Our children and neices at the time, ranged from ages six up to twelve. All told, we hauled two suburbans and about six little kids, into the worst part of town on Christmas Eve. And it was a shock, even for me at the ripe old age of thirty-five. The little poorly-maintained but neat home, was two bedroom, dank...and dark. But not dark enough that we couldn't see the cockroaches crawling over everything. There was one couch, well-worn and very, very tired. And there were five precious little faces peering up at us, awed to see anyone on Christmas eve. There was a Charlie Brown tree, with a handful of ornaments hanging off it, with nothing under the tree. Not one single thing.

No one knew what to say. We were in culture shock the first half hour, and I think our children wanted to cry. All of them. And we were a little worried about flying bullets. It was, indeed, that bad. But neither Rob, nor I, were about to let our dismay ruin the day, and so we plowed on, urging the children to get to know each other. That was a little like putting a six year old in a space shuttle. They had no experience with poverty, no vision outside of the shrouding we'd raised them in with the very best of intentions, and no basis for interaction. It was awkward and painful at first. All the white folk huddled one one side of the room, yanking the edges of the comfort blanket around us, and the african-american folk huddled in their corner. Rob and I stared at each other, wondering for a flash whether this is what our own children needed, on Christmas Eve?

We just didn't really know what to do or say. "Hey, I got the nintendo DX for Christmas....what did you ask Santa Clause for?" It was a steep learning curve that day.

Soon, one of the smallest of Mimi's children wandered over and said "Mister Rob, can I open one of my presents?"

And the heavens split wide open, as we finally found common ground - ripping open some of the gifts. That part, our kids could understand. And they all piled in and broke the ice.

That broken ice has turned into one of the greatest gifts our family has been given. For eight years now, we have been able to contribute to Mimi's family, not just at Christmas, but throughout the year. We've helped her help herself. Mimi got her CNA certificate, and got a job in the nursing industry. She has moved to a better place, and is on her own with her children. Mimi is a good, good mother, and it's been oh so gratifying...for all of us, to be able to help in some meaningful way.

One thing our children have learned is that poverty isn't really chosen. There are some who say that that those in poverty "have choices" to get out of the ghetto. That's like saying that a horse who lives in a 20 foot corral, should get out and run when the door is opened. They can't and they won't. It's what they've learned their whole lives. They have to be pushed and retrained and shown another life altogether. It's a slow and painful process.

Mimi came from a crack home, where she woke up on a floor with different men in and out, her entire life. School was just a government-required mandate, and she had little understanding of it's importance. She had no help with homework; no mother setting limits and boundaries; and no vision of future. That's life in the ghetto. That she's managed to raise respectful children, and rise above where she was raised, is a Christmas miracle in itself.

None of her children will go on to play pro football. We haven't made that much of a difference, and never will. None of them will go to elite colleges; or maybe even college at all. The journey out of poverty isn't a leap - it's a decades-and generations - long, process. But little things have happened along this last decade with Mimi, a few earth-shattering, but most just subtle and quiet.

Not long ago, Mimi's oldest son was accused of a crime that we knew unequivocally did not commit. He bumped up against a young girl at school, and it made the girl angry. She had a crush on him, and he was in a hurry and probably wasn't very nice to her. She cried, and accused him of sexual assault. Mimi called. And we called the great Mark Mesler, a top-notch criminal attorney. And he bought his very own pair of "Christmas shoes" for us that day, free of charge. "Go down to 201 Poplar, and get with that kid. See what the story is, and get with the officer. Intervene now before they charge him, and call me if they charge him".

And so we did. 201 Poplar is an inhospitable place, kindly speaking, and while it wasn't my first time down there, it too, is a culture shock. I made my way through a throng of accused perpetrators, and was buzzed in. I asked to see young KT, and to the officer's credit, he took me right back without the third-degree. In a room with two-way windows, sat big KT, head down. We hugged, and he towered over me. My head barely hit the middle of his chest. "KT, look at me. What happened?" I was not nearly interested in helping KT, as I was finding out the truth. And the truth mattered. If he'd assaulted that girl, I'd be walking out to find the public defender. If not, Rob and I were prepared to fight to the end for him. We'd come too far with that boy, to let him go down for a crime he didn't commit. I also knew I'd get the truth, because that boy was incapable of lying. I'd known him almost a decade. "I was running down the stairs, because my momma was blowing the car horn for me to come out of school. I was swinging my arms, and hit that girl. Jan, I said I was sorry, but she started yelling at me and screaming, and she ran to the office. Then her momma came, and she started yelling that I'd touched her daughter". "KT, how old was she?" Fifteen. The writing was on the wall. I'd have to pray for a miracle, because KT was on a fast track to the sex offender registry, and prison. If he did it, so be all those terrible but necessary, things. If not....well...... In a split second, I had to come up with a plan that would work to keep KT out of jail. Did he need to take a stand of denial, and risk making the mom ever madder, which would have resulted in pressure on the police to press charges? Did he need to just get the truth out there in front of that mother? And my last thought was "I don't know what I am doing, but the Sawyers are all this kid has right now". I reflected briefly on a quote "Evil prospers when good men do nothing". I wasn't a man, but I wasn't going to do nothing, by God. I leaned across the table, knowing full well that sex crimes officers were probably watching and listening. "KT, you have one chance to get this right. You go in there, and you humbly apologize to that girl, and let's pray that this works out the way it's supposed to". It isn't the stuff defense lawyers dream about at night, but it was all we had. And it was free of charge.

I knew something about men, and one thing I know is that the art of apology is a little lost on them. Think "Mars and Venus". And so we rehearsed. "Mary (not her real name), I know you were hurt by what I did, and I am deeply sorry for that. I did not intend to hurt you, and I'll be more sensitive in the future. Will you please forgive me?" Over and over, until he got it right.


Officer Thomas took us in the room where the mother and daughter, Mary, awaited. KT waded through the tension to take a seat at the back side of the room, across from the girl. Momma eyed me suspiciously, and said nothing. The hulking, well-seasoned sex crimes officer, settled in on one edge of a desk. He asked one question. "KT, what happened here today?" And KT told his story. The officer shifted his gaze to Mary, and paused. The girl dropped her head, and began to cry. "Mary, is this how it happened?" And she bobbed her head up and down, gently at first, and then more resolutely. And suddenly, the rest of us weren't even in the room. "Momma, he didn't mean to do it. I was just so mad. We had a class together". And she cried harder. And in an instant, I think officer Thomas got it. A simple accident, seen through the eyes of a loving, protective mother, became a mountain. And a child wanted desperately to please her mother. But not at the expense of a boy's life.


She confessed, and the compressed air blew out of the room as KT exhaled. And then, KT bought his own pair of Christmas shoes. He didn't have to do it, because the cat was out of the bag. "Mary, I am sorry I hit you. I didn't mean to do it, and I am sorry you were hurt. Will you please forgive me?" This girl, who had the power to ruin his life, had just received a gift. And we left the room lacing up our own pair of Christmas shoes.

I went to meet Rob behind the locked door at 201 Poplar, where he'd waited anxiously for the outcome, praying a young boy he cared for so much, wouldn't be going on the fast track to prison. We left the jail, knowing that somehow, through no hand of our own, we'd just changed something big.

Last year, our eldest child Sydney, made a post on her facebook. I suppose she maybe didn't think we'd read it, but we did, and with great pride and thankfulness. In it, she talks about the joy of Christmas. And I humbly quote from her posting "Icicles and Cracker Barrel Ornaments", "My favorite part of Christmas is watching others open the gifts I bought them. I could care less if I got anything in return: this is where people don't get it. So many people nowadays are extremely materialistic. They want the newest iPod, the phone with the most features, the latest designer purses, the most expensive jewelry, etc. For the past seven or eight years my family and I have helped a family in need at Christmas. The Carpenters are a family of six kids and a single mom. When we first met them, they had nothing......... They lived in an awful part of Memphis where there were regular shootings. They were always so grateful to us when we would bring presents over for them and the kids were always smiling. Seeing how they lived really put it in perspective for me. Everyone wants nice things, but things don't make happiness. Family, friends and significant others make the happy."

The Blind Side has changed how our kids, see life. When they too, are confronted with the proverbial shivering human being, maybe they have a better chance now at the vision, instead of walking away. Maybe they will understand that most times, we are born with fortune, or not. Born with advantages that most people don't have. Maybe they've learned empathy, because empathy is, indeed, learned. And they, and I, will have a more keen sense of thankfulness for what we have, and what we can do.

I asked Mimi this year, what she wanted for Christmas. Earrings? A purse? No. Wash detergent, shampoo, and sheets for the beds. And a few dishes to serve us pizza on when we make our visit on Christmas eve eve.

Our neighbors, Bruce and Dyanna Thompson, pulled out their wallet a few nights ago, and bought Mimi a turkey and rolls, for their Christmas meal. We didn't ask, they just did. Not because of any kind of guilt at what they have - just because it was a pair of Christmas shoes they wanted to buy. They have the vision.

We have some friends who make a lot of money every year, and I'd be surprised if they keep much of it. Red Cross - millions of dollars. Rebuild New Orleans - millions of dollars. They have the vision.

Send sheets, dishes, and wash detergent our way, if you can spare them. In fact, any kind of Christmas shoes you want to send, we will take them with us on Christmas eve eve. And Mimi and her children will peer up at us, much like ten years ago, thankful and changed. And so will we.

Merry Christmas, and may this be the year that you get the gift of the Blind Side, in some way or the other.

Love Jan and Rob