This is the first time in more than four decades, I won’t be able to wish my dear friend and lifelong mentor, Happy Birthday. Sadly, Michael “Mike” Lackey, 77, died on July 3, 2025. If you read his online obituary, Michael Lackey Obituary (2025) – Lima, OH – The Lima News it details his noteworthy career as an award-winning journalist. Still, it doesn’t mention the fact, he forever changed a life. Mine.
Truthfully, I wanted to write, “A Tribute to Mike Lackey” column years ago. When I asked his permission, he erupted into laughter, finding the idea hilariously funny. Ever the newspaperman, he turned serious and said something like, “They won’t publish that kind of column, until I’m dead.” As usual, he was right.
Mike Lackey spent almost four decades keeping his west central Ohio community informed. He first joined the staff of The Lima News in 1972 as a sportswriter. Originally, a Dayton native, he graduated from Kettering Fairmont West High School and then Earlham College.
By the time I met him in the late 1970s, he was the assistant city editor at Lima News. I was in my early twenties working dead end jobs trying to pay my apartment’s rent. Depressed and broke, I had been forced to quit The University of Akron in my junior year and come home to Lima.
As a teenager, my battle with depression began. While a 16-year-old junior at Lima Central Catholic High School, a near fatal suicide attempt landed me in the local psychiatric ward followed by commitment to Toledo State Mental Hospital. Eventually, self-medicating ongoing emotional struggles led to addiction.
Mental Health was in the infancy stages and individuals like myself, were frequently either ostracized or demonized. Despite this, I desperately wanted to become a journalist. Although the stigma surrounding mental health issues was rapidly closing the door to my professional opportunities. Almost miraculously, when I could no longer bear my hopeless circumstances, I met Mike Lackey.
About the same time, I was fortunate to enroll in Bluffton College with a goal of completing my degree. Under the direction of the late Dr. Lawrence Templin at Bluffton, Mike Lackey, by then city editor, took me on as an intern for the 1981/1982 academic year. He was aware of my past but gave me the opportunity anyway. As with all cub reporters, the veteran editor painstakingly and with impeccable integrity taught me the “nuts and bolts” of reporting.
Mike’s disability was more obvious than mine. He was born with cerebral palsy. He struggled to walk unassisted, fighting confinement in a wheelchair. I learned to fight for a better future by watching him valiantly defy his own physical limitations. Through his steadfast example, he taught me to never use a personal disability as an excuse. Rather the talented wordsmith relied on his brilliant mind to forge his path in journalism.
While he was an incredible editor, he was also a gifted writer. He returned to his craft full-time becoming well known as the Lima News columnist for decades. Inevitably, a wheelchair did become part of Mike’s reality, so did numerous statewide Associated Press Awards, along with the respect of countless community leaders.
Mike Lackey believed in me, when no one else did, not even myself. I often wonder how many other aspiring journalists this natural mentor inspired. In 2008, the award-winning writer was forced to retire prematurely after a daunting battle with Guillain-Barre syndrome. The disease caused him to have an extended stay in a nursing facility.
But in traditional Lackey style, he fought his way back, later writing the 2013 award-winning book, “Spitballing: The Baseball Days of Long Bob Ewing” about a former Cincinnati Reds player. Mike’s true love was Reds baseball. Winning or losing, he was a faithful fan.
As for faithful, following my internship, Mike Lackey remained a mentor and friend for the rest of his life. For decades, he would edit books or articles I wrote, refusing payment other than a Kewpee double cheeseburger. He beamed with pride, when I finally won my own 2014 Ohio Associated Press award.
The veteran newspaperman took a chance on me as a young woman struggling to overcome the societal stigma regarding mental health/addiction. This helped me fulfill my dream of becoming a journalist and provided the incentive for learning to live in recovery one day at a time. If you want to honor his legacy, you could give someone like me an opportunity.
In the end, my heart is filled with gratitude to God and also profound grief. I’m beyond grateful God gave me the gift of Michael Lackey as a lifelong mentor and friend. The grief is knowing, I will always miss him more than words can express.
Of course, the missing is worse on special days, like his birthday. So, “Happy Birthday, Michael! I couldn’t let the day go by without letting the world know how you forever changed a life. Mine.
Christina Ryan Claypool is a Chicken Soup for the Soup and Guideposts book contributor and author of the inspirational, “Secrets of the Pastor’s Wife: A Novel.” Contact her through her website at www.christinaryanclaypool.com.
The dark wood was heavily marred with scratches, and it didn’t look like much of a prize. In those days, Old English furniture polish was the standard cure for distressed furniture, so Mom doused the entire shelf in the dark liquid. Almost magically, it seemed to breathe new life into the discarded antique. When the wood dried, she found a lace dolly that covered the deep gouges on top, and then filled the shelves with books and glassware. Even though I had seen her do it countless times, once more this resourceful woman created something of beauty out of second-hand junk.
Thankfully, my mother’s lesson about reclaiming the vitality of a cast-off item stayed with me. That’s why not long ago, when I found a large rhinestone and silver-plated key at a church sale, I had to buy it.
When an individual becomes an addict, they aren’t who they once were. A formerly honest person will lie, cheat, or steal to get their next fix. As a society we must be aware of how desperate this chain of deception can be, and how we can become ensnared in its web, despite our good intentions. For example, recently I was in a local drugstore when a seemingly frantic male approached me holding his cell phone in his hand. He told me that he had just spoken with his grandmother and was terribly embarrassed to ask, but he needed an additional $10.00 to buy a prescription for a loved one. His request tugged at my heartstrings. The young man dressed in a plaid cowboy shirt could sense my ardent desire to help, but what he couldn’t sense is that my compassion was checked by a painful past experience.
That’s why I went to the pharmacy counter inquiring if there was a young man unable to pay for a prescription. I wanted to help anonymously, if the need was authentic. The drugstore clerk informed me that no one matching his description or situation had been there.
P-A-I-N! I definitely did not want this bleak word to start the new year. Here in Ohio, January is bitter cold and the days are gray enough. I tried desperately to push the word out of my mind, assured that I was not hearing our heavenly Father’s still small voice clearly.
I prayed and cried and begged the God who I had always known as Healer to restore me to the vibrant woman I had once been. All to no avail, as the physical pain continued, and fear of more pain increased my anxiety. The resulting emotional turmoil grew so intense that deep depression became a battle like it had been in my youth. I had never experienced anything like this. My heart was broken by my diminished existence, and also for all the other folks living daily with chronic pain. The kind of unceasing torment, that can ultimately cause you to question God’s love for you. Pentecostal by background, I did not theologically know how to explain pain. Didn’t I have enough faith? Was there sin somewhere in my heart? I knew all these faulty questions were not the problem, thankfully my non-charismatic brothers and sisters would never even ask them, yet I had watched others who were struggling being judged over my years in ministry. Even when I was well, I never wanted to judge someone suffering, knowing there is so much we will never understand with our finite mind.