Two weeks ago, on a Monday morning, one such lesson showed itself to me on a familiar drive into Cuba, MO.  An all too familiar drive.  Shortly after the kids left for school, it was my turn to make an almost three hour trek through the rolling hills of Missouri to reach Marble Hill, where I would present to Woodland High School.   I have mentioned that I always wear something to remind myself of how strong I am and that presenting about my recovery is important.  This particular Monday I wore a special bracelet that I had just received from my Aunt Bertina.

She had mailed it to me and I did not open my mail until late Sunday evening.  She had sent me a hand written note explaining that the bracelet was owned by my Great Aunt Irene who had recently passed.  Explaining the importance she saw in the bracelet as it related to my life and experiences, she wanted me to have it.  It was a beautiful, emotional letter and when waking Monday morning, it was an easy decision to pick up the bracelet and wrap it around my wrist as my reminder piece for the day.

My GPS refused to load as AT&T’s signal was not strong this day.  Hoping it would connect by the time I reached the end of my drive way, I headed past our barn lot and came to a halt at the mail boxes, noticing there was still no connection.  Turning onto the gravel road while messing with my phone had crossed my mind, but I chose to stay put, close the app and start over.  All of which took a few measly seconds.  Heading up the country highway, I knew it would be silly to turn onto the interstate when I could take a shorter route to my destination.   Traveling down the South Outer road, also known as Route 66, I knew I would pass the site of our crash.  I travel this stretch of highway often, never  intentionally looking at “the spot”, but always knowing it’s there.

This morning was beautiful.  The temperature was perfect, it was slightly overcast but still had the feeling of summer and I was excited to be speaking in this part of Missouri.  Each time I present I think about the hour or so that I will spend with the audience, if there is an experience that I would like to add and who may be affected by my words.   I soon found myself more involved in what was going on in my mind rather than what was happening in my surroundings.

That familiar section of blacktop, pine trees, railroad tracks and grassy ditch came into my view and jarred me back to reality, just in time to see a red SUV pop over that same small hill and travel half way into my lane.  Slow motion began as I watched the weight of the vehicle lean into that curve as the wheels turned and grabbed the pavement to quickly jerk back to the correct side of the road.  Spontaneously I was thrown into a flash back of a white truck in that exact same motion with huge white head lights  heading straight towards me.

Instinctively pushing on  the brakes with both feet our vehicles missed hitting each other by a moment.  Not yelling, but loudly I said to that driver, “Dang you! Dang you for making me feel this way!” as my heart beat ferociously in my chest and my eyes were as wide as could be.  Calming myself, I noted that it was a reminder to always be paying attention.  Had I not trusted my instincts to stop at the end of my drive way to check my GPS, I would have come around the corner at the identical moment the other driver did and again I would be in a collision.

I wore my Great Aunt Irene’s bracelet because my intuition told me to.
I whole heartedly believe she was my guardian angel that Monday morning and that makes me smile.

We met as sixth graders. That was the year when the Gerald and Owensville kids combined at one location. On a warm spring day, nearly every other student in our school was away on a field trip. Apparently Chris and I were not good fundraisers, so we were left at school with a few others to play at the park all day. This was the first time we really had a conversation with each other, partly due to my shyness, the other because he was the most popular boy in school and everyone wanted to talk to him.
We played one on one basketball nearly the entire time and I was seriously competitive, so I was giving him a run for his money, as a girl. That was the beginning of our friendship, whether we spent every weekend together or only caught up occasionally as our lives took different paths.
Regardless of time, Chris was one who never judged nor turned his nose up at you and each time we ran into each other, his arms were spread wide and that goofy smile was on his face and I’d hear, “Carey!”

This is why he was loved by so many. He was always Chris, no matter what crowd he was hanging with, he was always the same person.
When I opened up Face Book that Monday afternoon as I was picking up my child from Middle School, my mind became confused, panicked and started a denial process. Immediately I messaged a long time friend of mine and she gave me the grim rundown of events that I had not yet heard.
I’m sick.
I hurt.
My mind is racing and screaming NO!
How could this be? He’s not waking up? He’s a pro motorcycle rider, it was a county fair, and how could this go wrong? Nothing can happen to Short Blankenship, he IS invincible! Many of our minds were screaming the same sentiment.
I could not call anyone. I did not feel it was my place, this was too real, too sacred, too heart breaking. I waited, along with every other person who Chris had touched with his personality.
A day later, as I rode in my Kubota, clipping our pastures, I knew this would be the deciding day. Such heaviness heaved itself upon me for days and I was just on the outskirts of the tragedy, not in the eye of the storm.
As my music shuffled from my phone to the tractor speakers, I heard the song play and my heart shattered. I knew before I even opened up my phone to look that Chris “Short” Blankenship had passed from this Earth. The very first post I viewed as I swiped my phone was from a moto-cross friend of his that explained, due to the severity of Short’s injuries that he sustained at a race the past weekend, he had indeed passed away.
I sat in my tractor seat and wept as if I were a little girl, with waves of tears, gasps and emotions rolling over me again and again and again, just as every single person who knew Short was doing at that same exact moment.
Our Owensville class of 1994 had lost too many classmates already, but Chris was my first true friend that had left my life, forever.
Each of us ask the question of, “Why did he have to be taken from us so early”? Especially his wife and two children. Fair? Never.

As time has passed and our hearts have had time to accept and heal, we again smile as we think of those many crazy, fun experiences or those late night sentimental, overly philosophical conversations we all have had with that man.
God does not bring us home until we have fulfilled our purpose. We’ve heard that our entire lives.
Look at how many lives Chris Blankenship has touched. How many memories he has given us to reminisce about.
How many of us can leave a legacy like he has by just being ourselves? By being true to whom we are, one hundred percent of the time? THAT is pretty freakin’ awesome.

That song, that was playing, that told me the truth that I did not want to believe, was Home Sweet Home by Motley Crue. As I took control of my tears that day, I couldn’t help but to smirk at him and think, “Well………..how fitting”. Because there was no way that Chris “Short” Blankenship was going to make a quiet, mundane entrance into the gates of Heaven, he was going to be playing that electric guitar at the highest decibel possible, letting every angel know he was arriving , singing to them,

“I’m coming home. Home Sweet Home.”