REPARATIONS

Good things always come in threes.

You should have known that. You only thought you knew.

The third red rope was there as well. Miss Todd Lincoln was C shift. Sue was T shift.

I was the A shift red rope.

When you call the big guns, you bring all three.

If anyone out there in AWACS world remembers that the Elmendorf crash happened so quickly after the Murrah Building Bombing, we almost didn’t have time to grieve.

Well, then Tom and Sue Lehner went riding one night to check the status of their home being built a few miles down the road from where we lived in Choctaw, Oklahoma. And, even though they always were careful and wore riding leathers on their journeys here, there and everywhere, that one night they didn’t wear them because they were happy, in love and left the baby with the friends while they checked whether the contractors did their job.

And, then… this is where the story starts, Norma Lee Todd. With another red rope you barely remember because there are always three. You were night shift… C shift. Sue was evening… T shift. But when you want the game changer, who do you bring?

Martha Brown was the A-shift Red Rope. Wasn’t I Norma? How does one bring the A game?

You Build a Bridge and Get Over It. And you STAND on principle and BELIEVE.

Sue Lehner and her son Micah came to visit us when they came to visit the place Micah had heard about all his life and never knew. When my son met Micah, they shook hands awkwardly and then Joey Garuccio said “Hey, dude… I’ve heard about you. Nice to meet you.”

And Micah said, “you too.”

And my heart cried a little because I planned for them to be best friends and just live down the road from one another.

Maybe they could meet up at the grocery store at the corner for a Pepsi-cola once in a while. Like Mike Eakin and I used to longagofaraway.

Then, God saw my plan and smiled.

CHOOSING A MIRACLE
by
Martha Garuccio

About thirty years ago, I discovered something significant about my relationship with God. I faced my own arrogance before Him and learned about human weakness. After three decades of a somewhat casual belief in God, I found faith in humility. Though I lack the wisdom to completely understand what happened, I witnessed the presence and the essence of God.

I have spent most of my 58 years in formal education of one kind or another. As I tried to complete my master’s degree, I observed this odd contradiction; the more knowledge I gained, the more meager my comprehension of life’s truths. But since that moment years ago, I’ve learned to find relevance in routine episodes of my life that I was blind to before. I still seek knowledge, but I temper it with appreciation of simple things.

It began at midnight, September 26, 1995, when Tom Lehner’s motorcycle was struck by a drunk driver and I didn’t get MADD. I got sad. and, for a while… really sick.

The telephone rang. My husband, Nick, answered sleepily, then sat upright with a strangled, “Oh, no.”

Our friends, Tom and Sue, had been struck by a driver failing to stop at an intersection near our home. Nick dressed quickly and went to their house to relieve the baby-sitter. Three-year-old Micah slept blissfully unaware of the profound change that had just occurred in his life. I carried our own two-year-old son from his crib into living room where I drank coffee, cried, and just looked at my baby and worried about hers.

Sue and I have known each other since we went through Air Force technical training more than 15 years ago. By coincidence or fate, we lived close by each other. Since becoming mothers, separating from the service and becoming college students, we lacked time to visit. I looked forward to the day when our boys would be able to play together untended while she and I reminisced about the old days over iced tea or lemonade.

During the previous two years, Tom had cleared a plot of land they’d purchased relatively cheap. They designed a home together and hired contractors for each phase of its construction. As their dream home was nearing completion, they planned to move during the month of October 1995.

In the middle of packing belongings at the rental house, they decided to ride to the acreage to check the last contractor’s progress. Usually cautious with protective gear, Tom and Sue wore no helmets for the short motorcycle ride to their newly finished home.

As they neared the intersection, Tom noticed the approaching truck was not slowing. He turned the handlebars and yelled “Hold on!” to Sue, who wrapped her arms around him and pressed her face to his shoulder.

Those were his last words to her.

Tom died instantly, pitching forward over the handlebars of his motorcycle to receive a death blow to his heart. Momentum propelled Sue to the asphalt, head first, crushing her right leg as her body followed to the ground.

Taken by helicopter to the hospital, she lived. She was deep in a coma, but she lived.

The next days were a whirlwind of telephone calls, trips to the hospital, and the memorial service for Tom. Barely able to concentrate during classes, I faced the fact that life just goes on.

I prayed.

I called Mom and asked her to pray.

I asked casual acquaintances at college to pray.

Three days after the accident, I felt compelled to make a trip to the hospital during school. Alarmed because no family members sat in the waiting room like they had the previous three days, I rushed to intensive care.

The nurses looked solemn when they told me that Sue’s brain was swelling. The pressure unchecked would cause strokes and, ultimately, death, they said. The surgeon planned to remove part of her brain the following day to save her life.
I walked to the bedside and looked at the photo of Micah on the wall above her feet. I moved close to her motionless form, its stillness broken only by the respirator forcing her to breathe.

I took her hand. Its coldness frightened me.

I spoke to her of Micah, of my son, of days gone by when we ran around a military training field clasping hands to help one another go the distance. I asked her to wake for Micah and for Tom’s memory. Then selfishly, I asked her to wake up because the sadness of it was too much for me to bear.

As tears streamed down my cheeks, I prayed that God would spare her. I closed my eyes and prayed harder than I had ever prayed before. As I stood there clutching her cold hand, it occurred to me that I was unfit to stand before God to ask a favor. I saw the nature of my own hypocrisy and I acknowledged my selfish motives for begging for my friend’s recovery.

And I stood awash in my own insignificance before God. Then, I asked Him to spare her anyway.

I stood a few moments, hoping for a token gesture of awareness from Sue’s limp hand. There was none, only the rhythmic gurgle of the breathing tube down her throat.
As I left, I asked the nurses if the operation would help. They were noncommittal, saying only it had to be performed to relieve the pressure on her brain.

A few days after the operation, Sue opened her eyes and began to speak.

Six months later, she began outpatient therapy. A few weeks later, Nick and I went to help her say goodbye to the home Tom and she built. Her father was taking her back to New York where he and other family members could help her and Micah rebuild their lives.

Her speech was measured, her thoughts often hard to follow. But she lived, she spoke, and with little Micah running ahead to clear toys from her walker’s path, she carried herself along.

The last I heard, Sue lived in Pennsylvania, where her family continues to help her. Or perhaps Tom’s family. Does it matter? Family is family, no matter who steps up. she came to visit us not long before our son graduated high school. She uses a cane and a walker but she could at least walk alone. She paused a long time before answering, but when given time, she could speak with clarity. She was aware of her limitations, but she was optimistic for her and Micah’s future. Some people think of Sue and cry. I smile. I promised her I would give her the credit. And I do.

She and her son are marvelous proof of Eternal Hope.

I suppose it could all be coincidence. I suppose it is a tribute to modern medicine and the skill of fine surgeons. I know it is a tribute to a mother’s resilience and her love for Micah. But in this world where the routine obscures the sublime, miracles are hard to find and harder to prove. I’m willing to give the skilled surgeons their due. But I hold dear the memory that taught me about choices.

I choose to believe in the miracle.

And that is my opinion and I have a right to it.
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And, yes there’s a picture. You ain’t getting it for free.