It’s strange, the things you remember in your life. Some things leave a stronger impression than you'd expect.

One thing that I remember is whenever my foster - mom Sandi heard a siren, she would stop right then and pray for whoever was in the ambulance and for his or her family. Since we most often heard a siren when we were in the van she would have me and Rex say a prayer, too. I’m not sure how this tradition started – my guess is that it is something born out of her natural compassion coupled with her great faith. But even though I was annoyed at times to have my natural teenage self-absorption interrupted, it sent a message about the value of all people, care for strangers, and the omnipresence of human suffering. It provided some perspective. Maybe my problems were not so big after all, compared to the person in that ambulance.

I followed her example for a long time – it was like Pavlovian conditioning; hear a siren, say a prayer. When I moved up to Chico I added the distinct whir of helicopter blades to my subconscious attuning. Hear the chopper, verify that it was FlightCare, say a prayer. I worked at the hospital, so my thoughts would drift to the nurses working that day, hearing the trauma team activation in my head, knowing with a bit of pride how the nurses would be preparing themselves, both those going out in the helicopter and those poised on the rooftop awaiting its return, to go into action to save a life or lives.

On Friday, I didn’t hear the helicopter go out, but I know it did.
On Friday, I didn’t pray for the nurses, but I know they were ready.
On Friday, the life brought to them so swiftly across the skies was my best girlfriend’s daddy, Connie Mack Lindsey. Judy’s husband; Debbie, Kenny and Peggy’s dad, “Pop” to numerous adoring grandchildren, and a man I knew little, but admired much.

Peggy’s and my friendship spans twenty-one years, back to our earliest college days. I believe I first met Mr. Lindsey (“Call me Connie, Tina”) when she brought me with her on a family camping trip to the coast. This loud, large, somewhat wild Lindsey clan was a bit overwhelming yet entirely enthralling to me. I’d never seen a family so at ease with playing with each other, yelling at each other, caring for each other.

Connie took me out on the ocean in their boat; me, white-knuckled holding onto the boat; Peggy and Kenny looking completely at ease and arguing about the driving. I remember him teasing Peggy and me about going in circles while trying to navigate the canoe. I remember watching him work the grill, watching him drive the boat, watching him lay into Kenny for something (he was a young buck and needed it), watching him give some lovin’ to Judy.

That started two decades of watching him, because, honestly, I didn’t talk with him all that much. My husband, who’s known him half as long, has had more full conversations with him than I have; he was, after all, a “man’s man”. Obviously, from not growing up with him, I can look at him with a bit of rose-colored glasses. But I watched him be both firm and fair with Peggy. I watched him be protective of her. I watched everything he did with Peggy; every ruffle of her hair, every kiss on the top of her head; noticed every time he tossed her the keys or a teasing comment. I watched, because I wanted to know what a father / daughter relationship was supposed to be like. Peggy had such a great relationship with her Dad. It was healthy. She was so secure.

Connie had many gifts. Though I didn’t know him well, I know he was a man of few words but strong convictions and plenty of action. His faith was deep and not at all showy. His life was an example of a strong work ethic and unwavering devotion to family and friends. And, from what I saw over this last weekend, that devotion was returned to him - because if you could survive one of Connie’s practical jokes, I think that made you a friend for life.

I mostly remember him with a smile on his face working the grill with one arm and extending the other arm to give me a hug – or more accurately, a bear-like squeeze. In later years, it was followed by the firm handshake for Mark, the kind reserved for papa-bear types to remind a young man that yes, I like you, but you had better take care of that girl you’re married to.

I remember always feeling welcomed and accepted. And not only me; he made many people feel welcomed. He was gifted in doing that with people. I understand now that he was completely comfortable with himself…so he could then be welcoming and accepting of others.

He made his employees feel valued. Several traveled up to the hospital this weekend. Even though the family business has been passed to Kenny’s capable hands, their connection to Connie and Judy remained.

He made his grandchildren feel cherished. I can still hear in my mind, over and over again, the love and pride and adoration in their voices, each time one of Peggy’s kids referred to their “Pop”.

And he made his family feel loved. Connie left many gifts for his family, both tangible and intangible. But the greatest, I think, is this; they know that he loved them.

On their fortieth wedding anniversary, the Lindsey kids crafted an album for Connie and Judy, filled with letters from family and friends. So I got a chance to tell them how much I appreciated them and how I’ve learned about life, family and love from watching the two of them. The letter ended wishing them many more joy-filled anniversaries in the years to come, reaping all the wonderful benefits of the good things that they’ve sown.

It’s beyond sad that there won’t be any more anniversaries, but yes, Judy and the entire extended family, for generations to come, will reap the benefits from being loved by such a generous, kind, fun-loving, hard-working, spiritually mature and devoted husband and father.

We miss you already, Connie. But we know that your soul has now discovered was it is to be truly alive and completely well.