Remembering a Brave Prom King

Corsage and CrownMost people attend a prom or two, but I’ve attended lots of proms. Like most teenage girls, as a high school junior, I was excited about the prospect of my first prom. Truthfully, it wasn’t much fun, since the boy I had a crush on didn’t ask me.

My senior prom was monumentally worse. By then, I was a patient at Toledo State Mental Hospital following an almost fatal suicide attempt. After spending a couple months in a private psychiatric ward, my insurance ran out. I was committed to the decaying institution that then housed thousands of mentally ill individuals. Before Mental Health reform, that horrible place was reminiscent of the one depicted in the classic film, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.

Battling depression and an eating disorder, I looked more like a 17-year-old Holocaust victim than a carefree teenager. The psychiatrist granted me a weekend pass hoping that attending prom would lift my spirits. My date was a classmate who suffered from epilepsy. He must have empathized with my situation, and proudly escorted me to the prom ignoring the stares from a few overly-curious students.

Fast forward three decades to May 2002, when my life looked nothing like that struggling teen. Faith, education, and the support of a few encouraging mentors had positively changed my circumstances. I was also engaged to a wonderful man who was a school administrator, whose job necessitated that we chaperone prom. Never having had an opportunity to go to prom together, Larry and I decided to don a tuxedo and gown and make it our night, too. Larry and me

Since then, my husband and I attended quite a few proms as chaperones. The impressive decorations, twinkling lights, and colorful dresses, still take my breath away. But the prom I remember most vividly is the one when a precious senior who was dying of bone cancer was elected prom king. It was the last year that my spouse served as a middle/high school principal at a rural school in northwestern Ohio.

We had all come to love this quiet dark-haired youth known affectionately by his nickname, A.J.  He was a senior, who had waged a long and valiant battle against Osteosarcoma. For nine months, he was spot-free, but then the disease turned deadly. Despite his illness, A.J. was compassionate and wise beyond his years.

Somehow in a tight-knit community where folks have known each other forever, tragedy is worse, because everyone is affected. Prom wouldn’t have been prom without A.J. being there, and he knew it. Even though, it had been months since he had been able to attend school, A.J. mustered all his strength and accompanied by his dedicated fiancée`, he showed up looking handsome in a white tuxedo.

As the disc jockey played pulsating music, the students danced energetically, while silently grieving the inevitable loss of the fun-loving youth who had always been part of them. When his classmates voted for their prom king, I shouldn’t have been surprised  when A.J.’s name was announced.

There was a moment when the reality of the high school student’s dismal prognosis hit me full force. It happened when a pretty senior girl asked if she could take a picture with him, and they posed humorously cheek to cheek with toothy grins. What A.J. didn’t see, was that when the blonde turned away, her expression crumbled into a painful grimace. She had taken the photo as a memory of the boy she had probably known since kindergarten, realizing he would soon be gone. Like a trained actress, before she turned to face A.J. again, the golden-haired girl mustered her courage and smiled brightly. Her affection for her terminally-ill classmate wasn’t romantic love driven by adolescent hormones. Rather it was the kind of caring that country kids take for granted growing up in a close circle of friendship.

When my husband and I visited him for the last time, A.J. sensed that my heart was breaking. He smiled his dazzling smile, and said, “I’ll be okay.” Then the 18-year-old lifted his T-shirt sleeve and displayed a large tattoo of a compassionate Jesus. A visual reminder of the Bible’s promise, “I am the Resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will live, even though he dies.”

That July, the bravest prom king I’ve ever known took his last earthly breath. Still, he lives on in the hearts of those he inspired, forever wearing a white tuxedo and a jeweled crown.

Christina Ryan Claypool is the author of the inspirational, “Secrets of the Pastor’s Wife: A Novel” available through all major online retail outlets. She is an AP & Amy award-winning journalist and speaker, who has been featured on Joyce Meyer’s Enjoying Everyday Life and CBN’s 700 Club.  Contact her through her website at www.christinaryanclaypool.com.

The Banana Nut Bread Christmas

The Christmas season more than three decades ago, “…was the best of times, [and] it was the worst of times…” as Charles Dickens once wrote. The best of times, because we were healthy, the worst, because as a single mom I found myself part of the U.S. poverty statistic.

This memory came flooding back recently while shopping at the supermarket. I began to wonder how people with limited financial resources like I once had, could possibly feed their families with the escalating prices at the grocery. Besides, the daily struggle, Christmas is coming for this economically endangered population. 

Even when your financial situation is rocky, Christmas comes with the human expectation should celebrate by giving to others. That’s when my mind recalled my own plight as a young single mother on welfare living in a government-subsidized apartment, despite a newly acquired college degree. I was ashamed of betraying my hard-fought dream of becoming a middle-class citizen through higher education. After months of sending out resume after resume during the recession and record unemployment of the early eighties, there was still no career prospect on the horizon.

Wanting to give presents to my loved ones is how the banana nut bread Christmas came to be. Not blessed with much domestic talent, I surprised myself that winter by mastering a recipe for banana nut bread. I got a couple boxes of Bisquick, nuts, some reduced over-ripe bananas perfect for baking, and a dented box of foil from a food salvage store.

Loaf after loaf of golden-brown bread baked in my little apartment oven in borrowed loaf pans. Then once the delicious smelling bread cooled, I wrapped it in seasonally appropriate, silver (aluminum) foil and tied a festive red bow around it. Admittedly, the nuts in the nut bread were quite sparse, due to my budget.

Through the years, I have been blessed with financial stability, and it’s easy to forget the frantic tension not having enough money for monthly bills, rent, food, or even diapers can produce within a family unit. And everything seems worse at Christmas. This all came rushing back wondering how on Earth people would “make ends meet.” as my grandmother used to say. 

This is not a political column being written to point a finger of blame at anyone for the rising inflation and prices. Besides, that would be a useless technique in helping folks who are struggling with food insecurity.  Thankfully, my own circumstances have improved dramatically for the better over the years, but millions of Americans are not so fortunate.

For instance, an employed friend recently confided their present need to visit the local food pantry to supplement the family’s monthly groceries. This saddened me, because I had no idea this friend was experiencing such need. Hearing this story reminded how tricky poverty can be. I remember only too well the destitution and shame it produces, which silences you. Once your voice is gone, you can give in to apathy and hopelessness.

The 2021 U.S. Census Bureau reported the poverty rate at 12.8 percent, also citing child poverty even higher at almost 17 percent. These sterile numbers do not adequately represent the plight of the innocent children or endangered seniors who face each day without nutritional food since healthy food costs more or those who might go to bed hungry.    

Senior citizens can be at special risk. Last month, a senior friend expressed their embarrassment at going to a food pantry once, admitting their pride prevented them from returning. These true stories were refresher courses for me about what scarcity feels like.

Thankfully, many communities take note of the needs of those less fortunate during this season of giving believing the Biblical viewpoint that, “It is more blessed to give than to receive,” especially where children are concerned.

It’s wonderful for all the organizations who make sure a child to has some gifts to open. But this Christmas, let’s also remember the food pantries that minister to our friends and neighbors or maybe we can make a gift of grocery gift card to someone we suspect is in need. 

As for me, I will never forget the banana nut bread Christmas. Since, “It [really] is more blessed to give than to receive,” giving the homemade bread as presents to family and friends gave me special joy. I had beaten the recession Grinch who had tried to steal Christmas.

When one is able to give something – anything – hope arises in the midst of lack. Hope for a brighter future and better life!

Christina Ryan Claypool is an award-winning freelance journalist/speaker and five-time Chicken Soup for the Soul book contributor. Her inspirational book, “Secrets of the Pastor’s Wife: A Novel” is available on all major online outlets. Contact her through her Website at www.christinaryanclaypool.com

Clemmie’s Colorblind Love Lives On

During Black History month, we remember those courageous people who positively impacted us. If you read my recently released book, “Secrets of the Pastor’s Wife: A Novel,” you will learn about the example and sacrifice of a loving black woman named Elizabeth “Lizzie” Jones. Lizzie is based on a precious lady who is an important part of my own history.

To explain, during the racially turbulent sixties, as a Caucasian child growing up in the Midwest, I didn’t know anything about racism. Therefore, it seemed only natural when Miss Clemmie came to take care of me and my siblings, while my mom was seriously ill.

Clemmie was an extremely overweight African-American woman who had a heart as huge as the girth that surrounded it. My financially struggling family couldn’t have paid her much of a salary, yet she lovingly looked after all of us. With Clemmie there, I instinctively knew that everything would be alright.

What I didn’t know then was that a Civil Rights movement was being birthed out of the frustration regarding injustices that African Americans like Clemmie could no longer bear. Not yet a first grader, I couldn’t imagine anyone hating such a wonderful woman, simply for the color of her skin. Eventually, my mother regained her health, so Clemmie no longer came to care for us. Yet her colorblind love, which was based on her faith in the Gospel’s message, “…Love one another, as I have loved you…” had made a lasting impression.

A few years later, on June 11, 1963, President John F. Kennedy gave his memorable Civil Rights address calling for an end to the acceptance of segregation in educational institutions, retail establishments, restaurants, and hotels. He also demanded that African Americans be able to vote without the fear of harmful consequences.

Just hours after Kennedy’s eloquent speech, Medgar Evers, a Black Mississippi Civil Rights leader was brutally gunned down by a white Ku Klux Klan member. Evers, a World War II Army veteran had survived the Battle of Normandy, but that June night he lay bleeding to death in his own driveway. Fifty minutes later, he died at a local hospital.

Although I’ve never been grievously wounded like Evers, I do know what it feels like to lie on cold asphalt too hurt to move. As an eight-years-old girl walking to school, I tripped and fell so hard that it momentarily knocked the wind out of me and scattered my science project everywhere. I was blocks from my family’s house, but an older middle-aged woman heard my cries, and rushed down her porch steps to care for me.

I didn’t know my Good Samaritan who shared Clemmie’s mahogany complexion. My grandmotherly rescuer tended my cuts, and then she carefully helped me put my science project back together. She smiled with maternal satisfaction when she finally sent me off to school. That beautiful smile is a treasured memory, as is the remembrance of Miss Clemmie’s massive arms hugging me to her bountiful chest.

It’s important to remember the selfless acts of compassion of others. Because whatever our race, everyday society gives us the choice to tolerate racism based on the justification that someone of another ethnicity probably once mistreated us.

The late Jewish Holocaust survivor, Liesl Sondheimer, often shared a profound truth regarding racial forgiveness. Like Nazi Hunter Simon Wiesenthal, Mrs. Sondheimer spent decades retelling the painful account of the extermination of more than six million European Jews during World War II. Unlike Wiesenthal’s quandary concerning forgiveness outlined so poignantly in his book The Sunflower, my dear friend, Liesl, always maintained that, “You must forgive, but never forget, or Hitler has won.”

Christian apologist C.S. Lewis once wrote, “…if we really want to learn how to forgive, perhaps we had better start with something easier than the Gestapo.” But Mrs. Sondheimer didn’t have that choice.

Yet we all have a daily choice about permitting racism, which continues to be just as deadly to our society, as Hitler’s gas chambers once were. But sadly, not everyone has a Miss Clemmie or a Liesl to teach them what compassion for their fellow man is all about. Still, if we follow Jesus’ command to, “Love one another,” it would be a much better world.

Mike Ullery photo

Christina Ryan Claypool is an Amy/Ohio APME Award winning freelance journalist and inspirational speaker. She has been featured on Joyce Meyer Ministries Enjoying Everyday Life TV show and on CBN’s 700 Club. Her Website is www.christinaryanclaypool.com. Her novel, “Secrets of the Pastor’s Wife” is available at all major online outlets.

Finally Saying Thanks to Vietnam Vets

Vietnam. Just mention the geographical place where the United States was heavily involved in the Vietnam War, and for many individuals emotions still run deep. The website, www.about.com, states, “The Vietnam War has become a benchmark for what not to do in all future U.S. conflicts.”

One of the primary items on that list of what not to do concerns how fellow citizens treated American soldiers returning from serving in Vietnam. After all, during the 1960s and until U.S. troops were finally withdrawn in March 1973, almost 60,000 Americans died in Vietnam. In addition, of the more than 2.5 million who served in South Vietnam, 75,000 were severely disabled.

Yet it is with shame that I remember as a teenager when our servicemen and women returned home, they were not met with a hero’s welcome. Those of you who are also old enough, can probably recall nightly news casts of soldiers being greeted in airports with signs that called them, “Baby killers,” or worse. Instead of being honored, many of these courageous patriots endured bystanders shouting profanities or spitting on them.

One myth that exists is that most of those serving in the war were drafted. According to a 1993 Memorial Day speech made at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall by Lt. Gen. Barry R. McCaffrey, 70 percent of those who died in Vietnam volunteered for service. This correlates with the fact that two-thirds of those who served during this conflict were volunteers not draftees.

Whether drafted or volunteered, there is little difference that the majority of these men and more than 7,000 women, who were primarily nurses, believed in their mission. During a 1986 speech, it was Gen. William Westmoreland who The History Channel documents as saying, “Ninety-one percent of Vietnam veterans say they are glad they served.” Even though there was such great loss of life and limb.

One of those losses can still be felt in Shelby County, concerning one of their own, Charles Gregory Huston. According to www.findagrave.com, “Staff Sergeant Huston was a member of the 5th Special Forces Group. [Forty-five years ago,] on March 28, 1968, he was conducting a reconnaissance patrol about 15 miles inside Laos…when the patrol was attacked by an unknown enemy force. Extraction was attempted, but heavy ground fire forced the helicopter to leave Staff Sergeant Huston on the ground.” Along with the then 22-year-old Huston, Sgt. Alan Boyer, and Sgt. 1st Class George Brown were also left behind.

Neither Huston’s body nor either of his comrades has ever been recovered. Huston was given the official casualty date of Jan. 26, 1977. The Green Beret is the only Shelby County, Ohio, resident who remains missing in action, while nationwide more than 1,600 soldiers are also unaccounted for from the Vietnam War.

Greg, as friends called him, was born on Sept. 29, 1945, graduated from Hardin-Houston High School, and later “enlisted” in the Army according to his 55 year-old-brother, John Huston, who lives in the Sidney, Ohio, area. The youngest of eight siblings, John said that his late mother, who died in 1982, never gave up hope that her son would be found.

John Huston, his brother, Robert, and friend, Keith Goins, were effective in getting the Vietnam Traveling Memorial Wall to the Sidney community in 2005 in Greg’s honor. Robert Huston was even employed with the commemorative project until about two years ago. John’s son, Gregory Huston, who was named after his missing brother is following in his uncle’s Green Beret footsteps by enlisting as part of the military Special Forces last fall.

As a journalist, interviewing Vietnam War veterans these past decades has taught me one important lesson: The responsibility that we as Americans still have to thank them for their service. After risking their lives on our behalf, they should have been greeted with gratitude and respect instead of name-calling and jeers.

As a nation, we have tried to make up for our tragic treatment of these brave men and women. For example, last year the Ohio General Assembly officially designated March 30 as Vietnam Veterans Day.

For me personally, whenever I encounter a Vietnam vet, I reach my right hand out to shake theirs while sincerely saying, “Thank you for serving our country.” Once a veteran told me it was the first time that he had ever been thanked

On the upcoming July 4th holiday, I will be remembering Huston and all the other brave men and women who died defending our freedom. Their sacrifice has allowed America to remain, “The land of the free, and the home of the brave.”

This blog post is dedicated to my nephew, Nicholas Anthony Lombardo who is currently serving in the U.S. Army in Afghanistan.

Battling Addictions: There is Help!

With headlines pointing to celebrities in and out of rehab clinics and many communities plagued with serious drug issues, we can forget that alcoholism remains a problem of great dimension. It is, “The most abused drug in our society,” said Cynthia Moore.

A lot of clients who are struggling with addictions including alcohol are referred to the Shelby County Counseling Center where Mrs. Moore is the Substance Abuse Clinical Supervisor. “…90 percent of our [addictions] client base are ordered by the court to be here, which means they have had an alcohol or drug related offense.” Getting help is often, “An alternative to jail or prison, if they successfully complete a program,” she said. Mrs. Moore has been in the business of helping folks overcome addictions since 1987. Yet the passion for the cause is still evident in her voice. Working in the field began as a college internship. “…I had some family members who struggled with alcohol addiction. I just thought…I’ll just try it. I never did anything else since. I love it,” she said.

It appears difficult to isolate alcohol abuse solely though, since many of the agency’s clients struggle with cross-addiction. “They may have another primary drug, heroin is huge right now, but always drinking in the interim,” said the addictions expert. “We see cross-addiction…where they are addicted to many substances.”

As for putting a face on the problem, the supervisor believes, “The reality is we are interacting with people who are functioning with addictions everyday. First, we must get to know individuals better, before we see their struggle.” Whether it is an employer or family member, “Sometimes they get angry, they don’t understand that drug addiction or alcoholism is a disease,” she said. “It’s important to separate the person from the disease.” Moore is emphatic in stressing the importance of recognizing that, “This is always a disease. You are going to see mood swings…[also] this disease causes people to break their value systems.”

How do we know when it’s time to seek help for someone we care about? “As the disease progresses, the effect on those major life areas get bigger and bigger and easier to see,” said the supervisor. “What people don’t realize is that chemical dependency treatment is a cumulative process,” she said. “Many things throughout someone’s life have to accumulate before they are ready [to get help]. They might be job problems, health problems, legal problems, medical problems, spiritual problems, [ etc.]” Alcoholism is “cunning, baffling, and powerful,” said Moore, quoting from the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous. “Part of our treatment program is to introduce them to Alcoholics Anonymous, Narcotics Anonymous, and Al-Anon. She asserts that it is, “Very important for an addicted person to find others who have walked that path and succeeded. They cannot fight addiction alone. They need others with them to help them deal with the thing that has become more powerful then themselves.”

As for church support groups like Celebrate Recovery, Cynthia Moore considers these to be, “Very helpful avenues, as well.” Although she admits that the drawback is that many individuals battling with substance abuse can also struggle with a lack of worthiness initially making seeking assistance from a religiously-affiliated source difficult for them. To be an advocate for someone fighting addiction, “We have to be aware of the resources in our community. In every county there is an agency that is dedicated to helping the addicted population,” said Moore. Agencies like Shelby County Counseling Center offer, “…support services to the family, as well the addict,” she said. The Center’s primary “funding stream comes from the Tri-County Board of Recovery and Mental Health Services. We have a sliding scale based on family size and income,” Moore explained. [Although] “…we never ever refuse anyone service based on ability to pay,” she added.

If you are wondering if you have a problem, or concerned that someone you love might, you “…can call and just talk to counselor,” said Moore. This doesn’t require an appointment, instead phone the center and ask, “Can I just talk to counselor for a moment?” Moore suggested. “Really, what it is about, if this is the time for them to be ready,” said the mental health professional.

Is it your time to get some help? It takes a lot more courage to pick up the phone, than to simply suffer in silence. Call the Board of Mental Health in your area and ask for a referral, visit a church recovery group, or attend an AA, NA, or Al-Anon meeting to learn more. Check your local newspaper’s community calendar for meeting places and times. There is hope for breaking free of addictions, but you have to take the first step. After all, the life you save may be your own.

Christina Ryan Claypool is an Amy Award winning journalist and inspirational speaker. This post is excerpted from a column which originally appeared in the Sidney Daily News on February 4, 2013.