The Redbird Sings the Song of Hope

pink is the new red

I recently had the opportunity to be the keynote speaker at an event sponsored by our local newspaper. This event honoring exceptional women in our region of the state is what I like to refer to as a PRETTY. BIG. DEAL. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t telling my voice not to sound “too excited” and telling my heartbeat to slow down when I got the call asking if I would be the speaker. I was giddy with enthusiasm, honored and delighted to be asked. What I didn’t realize in the agreement was that my face would be plastered on the newspaper (think a quarter of the page) and on flyers all over the county. I still think of myself as the quintessential girl next door, so to have that type of media coverage was humbling, especially since many days I did not look like the stunning woman looking back at me from that page. I was often out in no makeup, hair in a ponytail, and sweat clothes (that I actually use at the YMCA and don’t just wear because they are comfy). The girl in the photo got lucky with a beautiful (albeit freezing) day with a slight breeze giving her glossy diva hair for the photoshoot.

In the days leading up to the event, I worked on my speech and prayed A LOT. I asked God for the right message to share with this group of amazing women, and that my words and stories would be inspirational because they all deserved the very best. When the evening came, I was thrilled to look out in the audience and see friends, neighbors, former co-workers, and families of former students in attendance. These were my people, and the ones that didn’t know me personally were about to become my people. At the end of the evening, as typically happens following one of my speaking engagements, there was a line of those who simply wanted to hug me. Good thing I am on my way to earning a PhD in hug-ology. One of the attendees was a dear friend and colleague. She is the real deal, a writer and literature professor. I admire her for all the ways she has loved our family in the last few years, but even more so for the talents she possesses. After our warm embrace, she said what I consider to be one of the best compliments I have ever received. “Kandy, you are the embodiment of Southern storytelling!” Did you hear that, Papa Noles? I have made it! All those years of listening at your feet to you and Jerry Clower and around the tables of every relative I have, I made it to the big leagues.

Those words carried me home as I walked that beautiful spring evening. Well, honestly, I felt like I was more floating than walking. Storytelling is something that isn’t just a part of my cultural heritage. I feel like it is an integral part of my DNA. Most of my friends, especially those who are fellow speakers, often chuckle because I have a story about everything. Some people collect knickknacks; I collect friends and their stories. I consider those words and memories my greatest earthly treasure because I plan on taking a whole bunch of people to heaven with me.

Those memories recalled over and over again have been the way that we keep Reed’s memory alive for Cloie. She was simply so little when he died that she doesn’t remember the details. We tell the stories again and again to help her keep a piece of Reed alive in her heart. For us, telling stories and speaking about him is as natural as breathing. It may be off-putting to others, but to those who find it weird or uncomfortable, I simply don’t care. It isn’t that I don’t care about them or their feelings (because I really do), but Reed is a member of our clan, our tribe, our family, and speaking about him helps us heal. In addition to collecting stories, I am also a big fan of quotes. Words move my soul. I saw this quote once and it stuck with me, although I don’t know who is the original author.

“When you find people who not only tolerate your quirks but celebrate them with glad cries of ‘me too!’ be sure to cherish them. Because those weirdos are your tribe.”

This is why speaking about Reed is just second nature to us. He was one of our weirdos, the same bunch that loves how their momma sometimes serves ice cream for breakfast and calls us it healthy because she wraps it up with bananas and crepes. He was also the weirdo who loved to get ice cream in the form of a Dairy Queen blizzard for supper. He loved superheroes and animals and the Minnesota Twins and traveling and laughing as much as all of the rest of us weirdos around here. It simply would be foreign to us NOT to talk about him. We do it to bring ourselves comfort, and have learned along the way that our open sharing brings comfort to others, which we believe is exactly God’s call for our lives. Not talking about him would definitely be a sad, sad day for us.

A few weeks before one of the Reed’s Runs (our main fundraising tool for the Reed Stevens Memorial Scholarship), a former student, now dear friend, sent me this poem. Tears streamed down my face for the love she shared and for the aptness of the sentiment. She knew my feelings on what I would consider the second worst day of my life, the day no one speaks Reed’s name, and she thought these words would speak to my heart.