That Time my Mom Died- Part One

It was a Thursday afternoon in 2003 in my small hometown. I was sitting in my high school seminary class when a familiar voice cracked over the intercom system. With the weekend close at hand, everyone welcomed the interruption as it provided a brief repose from the drudgery of 5th period. The announcement was particularly welcome in seminary because at the age of 17, I would have rather been doing quite literally anything other than memorizing passages of scripture from the Old Testament.

The voice coming from the box high on the wall belonged to our vice principal, Mr. Richins, who my classmates and I had heard make announcements like these zillions of times. I immediately noticed something different about his voice this time though. There was a noticeable tremor in his tone that I had not heard before. We all perked up with high hopes that his message would, at a minimum, burn up several minutes of class time or, better yet, result in one of us being summoned out of the classroom to freedom- kinda like Elijah when he was taken up by that whirlwind into heaven.

To my surprise, Mr. Richins called my name that day. As he announced to the class that I was needed in the office, it was now clear to me he was indeed choked up. I gathered my things and mozied out of the classroom. I was happy about my early escape, despite a sinking feeling that this might be the call I had feared receiving for many months. I had barely exited the seminary building when the owner of the voice that had just called for me over the intercom appeared in the flesh some 100 yards in front of me. Mr. Richins must have sprinted from the main building to come escort me across the street in person. The sinking feeling deepened as he put one hand on my shoulder and silently ushered me down the sidewalk, through the main doors of my high school and into the principal’s office. I remember him giving me an affectionate squeeze on the shoulder as he motioned toward the open office door. Inside, a yellowing telephone handset with a long curly cord lay turned upwards on the desk, indicating there was someone on the line waiting to speak with me. As I entered the room, I caught a glimpse of my close friend and then secretary of our high school, Kathy Chapel. I watched her wipe tears away from underneath her glasses and felt that ominous feeling return once more.

The heavy oak door closed behind me with a thud, leaving me alone in a windowless brick box. I picked up the phone and heard muffled sniffles followed by the voice of my dad talking to someone else in a friendly tone, “thanks so much, I can just get those later, ” he said. “Dad?” I said, knowing it was him but unsure if he was talking to me. “Oh hey, buddy!” He replied; his voice was brighter than I anticipated as I was now all but certain of my reason for being there. He tried to maintain his chipper disposition and asked me how my day was going. I answered but hurried him to the point, “Good, what’s up?” There was what felt like a very long pause before he spoke again, and despite his best efforts, the buoyancy in his voice faded as the reality of the message he had for me, his oldest son, sank in. As a relatively carefree and eternally optimistic guy, my dad always spoke with an air of confidence and high energy. This time, though, his tone carried the heaviness that only accompanies tragedy, uncertainty, and grief. I had never heard him sound this way in my lifetime, and the sadness in his voice conveyed more about our situation than the words he spoke to me next. “She’s gone, bud” he squeaked out through more sniffles and tears. “Your mom passed away about thirty minutes ago. Do you think you could pick up your siblings and head home?”