As seen in the October Issue of Bella Magazine

Recently, I was driving down the highway with my van full of teens when a scary thing happened. The opening bars of “Stairway to Heaven” played on our car radio, and I broke into a cold sweat. “Turn it off! No, turn it up!” The kids looked at me as if I was a lunatic. Little did they know I was being transported back thirty years, to the gym of my junior high. Stairway to Heaven was the song that was always played during a slow dance.

For me, it’s still not happy song. In 8th grade I had thick glasses, shiny braces, and was the Webster’s dictionary picture of “awkward.” I wasn’t going out with anyone in those days, but hope sprung eternal when the school dances were announced. Maybe, just maybe, someone would ask me to slow dance.

In preparation for the Big Show, my friends and I would spend hours preparing. In particular I remember we soaked ourselves in Love’s Baby Soft body spray and smelled each other’s breath to make sure it was minty fresh. Just the perfect casual outfit had to be selected. You know, the one that says, “This old thing? I just threw this together at the last minute” even though we had spent hours trying and rejecting every single outfit we owned. All this preparation, leading up to….a few hours in a school gym.

I’m serious, lives were made and ruined in that place. Now, to enhance my already awkward appearance and uncool clothes, I made a radical decision. Although I am legally blind and can’t see 6 inches in front of my face, I would leave my glasses at home the night of the dance. This way, I was sure that hunks would be knocked over with my previously unrecognized beauty. (Most of my favorite movies have this exact plot.)

Blind, I’d memorize the colors of my friends outfits and ask them to describe what my current crush was wearing. Like a baby gosling imprinting on a mother goose, I could only follow blurry patches of color. If my friends left me alone, I was sunk. I couldn’t see a thing! I would have to sit on the bleachers until someone came to rescue me.

The place to avoid during a school dance was the bathroom. The smoking didn’t bother me as much as the crying. The bathroom was like Heartbreak Hotel. It was the place of refuge for girls fighting with their boyfriends, breaking up the night of the dance, or those who were not asked to dance. Emotions ran high in the Girl’s Room.

Back to Stairway to Heaven. For one, it’s possibly the longest song ever to be recorded. Okay, it’s actually about eight minutes long. But, if you add adolescent angst to it, it’s easily 45 minutes long. Just the introduction is over two minutes long. This gives plenty of time for hope to die a painful death.

“Maybe he just can’t see where I am standing.”
“Maybe he’s not wearing HIS glasses.”
“Maybe he’s checking his breath in the bathroom.“
“Maybe he doesn’t recognize me because I LOOK SO GOOD TONIGHT.”
Until finally, “Maybe he asked someone else.”

If a girl is asked to dance, she had the opportunity to say “yes,” relieved to not sit it out, or say “no” and keep her options open for the cute guy from French class to come over and ask her. If she says “no,” she may not actually be Smarter than a 5th Grader. In general, she hasn’t taken the Stairway to Heaven. She’s taken the Hallway to the Bathroom. The Walk of Shame.

Now, don’t feel too sorry for me. I did get asked to dance a time or two during those years. And let me tell you, dear friends, I don’t believe Led Zeppelin was thinking of slow dancers when they penned Stairway to Heaven. It may be universally recognized as one of the greatest rock songs of all time, but it’s really hard to dance to! It starts slow, but ends with some rock, and what EXACTLY are dancers supposed to do? The real couple clung to each other during the fast parts. Cheaper than a drive in, I guess. Sometimes they couldn’t tell when the music stopped. But what about me? Dancing with Matt from my Confirmation Class at Church? I am blushing just thinking of it. Awkward, awkward song.

Now my kids are old enough to go to school dances, and I pray they have good memories. To my young readers, I offer you these words of hope. Try not to cry. Laugh, instead. And don’t worry so much about your outfits. You’ll never remember what you wore, but the music will haunt you forever.

Martie Smith Byrd still can’t listen to Dust in the Wind, either. She nutures her 5 teens and pre-teens in Roanoke and tries to not scar them emotionally with happy tales like this one. To share your dance horror stories, write martiebyrd@yahoo.com.

My dad was a man of both few and many words. He was a grand question-asker and listener to others. This was unless, of course, it was lecture time. Then he really didn't want to hear it. Explanations of poor choices were not given time on Dad's program. Redirection and forgiveness were the featured items. I resented this method until I had a household of teens. Now I resemble Dad's methods whenever I can.

I am grateful for my father. When I was young, he would make up bedtime stories for my twin sister, Carey, and me. Those were magical times. He taught us how to float off to sleep by imagining we were floating down a gentle brook. Since we grew up with such a brook in our backyard, that wasn't hard to imagine. Yet now my kids have learned that skill, without a brook, but with big, magical imaginations. Thanks, Grandpa.

Dad had been ill on and off for the last two years. Cancer, heart disease, more cancer, and a difficult fall that broke his ankle, hurt his knee, and left him unable to walk. He spent the summer at a rehabilitation facility. The nurses there all loved my dad. Recently someone said, "Did you love him because he was a good storyteller?" (For that he was.) "No," the answer came slowly, "it was because he let us tell our stories."

Ah, that's the legacy I would like to leave. Not to be a storyteller, but to allow others to tell their stories. And to listen, really listen. Like my dad.

It was a privilege to be with my father during the last week of his life here on earth. I arrived in Connecticut on a Friday, and he died the following Friday. The purpose of my visit was to attend my niece's bridal shower, and to celebrate my Mom's 80th birthday festivities. At least, that's what I thought the purpose of my visit was. Clearly, God had bigger plans, plans I couldn't have anticipated or imagined.

There's a bumper sticker that says, "Life is what happens when we're making other plans." But in my mind, I've edited it to say, "God is what happens when we're making other plans." You see, the shower had been scheduled for a later weekend to accomodate my speaking schedule. Then, the speaking event cancelled unexpectedly. It was the first time that had happened to me, and it shook me up. We decided to move the shower forward, which was a bit of a pain. But it seemed right to have it earlier, even, dare I say, necessary to have it earlier. Therefore, we were able to celebrate our happy events before the mourning began. God knew. He indeed orchestrates down to the finest detail...our schedule, our lives, our deaths. I am so grateful that I believe that and that I see my God in action.

There's more to tell, from the storyteller's daughter, but today I find myself sad and lethargic and oddly out of words. I loved my dad, and I always will. I'm so glad he is at peace, with his characteristic big smile, and his listening ears, and his stories to tell. I will look forward to seeing him again, in eternal life, and in God's perfect timing.