And now you'll know the rest of the story

I am always completely blessed and utterly amazed at some of the conversations in life that God allows me to be a part of. As strange as it may seem, when I walk away from these conversations, I am left feeling as if I have just received a gift of sorts. I love when people allow me a glimpse into their hearts, a look into their lives. It leaves me feeling so enriched....better than the person I was before speaking with them. I thrive on conversations that go beyond "How's the weather?" And yet, I am never sure when these meaningful samplings will take place and in what context. Which leads me to write about "The Rest of the Story" in reference to our Ghost Tour last weekend.



The Canal Winchester Historical Society, who was hosting the Ghost Tour, is made up of a lot of self-proclaimed historians. And these people have every right to address themselves that way, because most of them are over the age of 55. They have lived a lot of history themselves. Friday night, before the Ghost Tour began, I assumed my assigned post of being a door greeter at the Old Train Depot. The Train Depot would be used that evening for people to purchase their tickets to the tour, grab a cup of hot cider, and peruse the makeshift gift shop. As I walked in the door, my eyes were immediately drawn straight ahead of me to the ticket booth, still authentically intact from its earlier hustle and bustle days of selling train tickets. In the window, was an adorable elderly white haired gentleman, complete with a matching handlebar mustache and ticketmaster's cap. He took my breath away. And while it must be stated that Gregg doesn't need to worry about his "competion," I thought this man was completely precious. I couldn't get over how much he exemplified the time period in which we were trying to create that night. I hope for an opportunity to talk with him, but I really didn't know if there would be time for that, since we needed to focus our attention on the tour.



As things died down throughout the evening, I was able to gravitate toward the ticket window and carry on a much desired conversation with this dear man. I found his personality to be equally as charming as he looked. I first commented on his moustache and asked him if he had grown the "handlebars" for the tour. He said, "Oh no, I have had these for years." They were clearly an accent to his personality. He shared with me that his name was "Reno" and he was 80 years old. He had been a native to Canal Winchester most of his life. He has three grown sons and 4 grandchildren. Then, he began to share with me about the "love of his life" who had passed away 5 years ago. He had met her in the 8th grade and she proudly served the role of his wife for 55 years. As he told me about her with such adoring words, sharing what the last few years of their life together had become before she died, unknowingly, I found myself tearing up and noticed that he was too. I grabbed his hand and we had this "moment" together. As far as I am from being 80, I could relate to what it feels like to be married to the "love of your life." Reno and I were clearly generations apart, but we could associate with the mutual love that we had for our spouses.



And as if to close the chapter on that part of our conversation, Reno went on to share that he is coming out of the lonliness he has felt since his wife died, and is beginning to date again. His boys are so relieved, because they don't have to keep a close eye on him as much anymore. "See the woman in pink?" he asked, pointing across the foyer of the train depot. I glanced over to where he was pointing, and sure enough, there she was. Nothing like I would have pictured. "She's 74," he said, his handlebar mustache stetching to accomodate such a wide smile, "and she is running for the Village Council." Well, imagine that! He went on to say that he loves to go out to dinner with her and go to a CW football game here and there. I was so happy for him, and if it weren't for the ticket window physically separating us, I would have given him a hug. His story just delighted me so.



That night, as we were driving home from the performances, I was recounting this story to my girls, who were ready to put history behind them and go to bed. I wasn't sure they were completely grasping what I was telling them, until I heard Faith utter these words from the back. "Momma, you love old people," she said. I looked back in the rearview mirror and said,

"I know I do, Faith. I just can't help myself."





And now you know, the rest of the story.