There are events in history so extraordinary that they mark time. Most people who live through one of these events can tell you how old they were, where they were, and exactly what they were doing when they first heard the news. The bombing of Pearl Harbor, Kennedy’s assassination, and the attack on the World Trade Center are a few such events in recent times. There are also events in individual’s lives that mark time for them. Some of these are good and some are bad; generally, they are all life-changing. Such was January 12, 1990, for my family. It was a Friday and began as any other normal Friday at that time of year. Our five kids were all off to school; my wife and I were off to work. We were all to hurry home for a quick supper so we could get to our local high school basketball game before all the good seats were gone. My oldest daughter, a high school sophomore, had plans to stay overnight with a girlfriend. Nate, our oldest son, had arranged to have his best friend stay over at our house and go rabbit hunting the next day. Eric was the starting point guard, and Nate the starting shooting guard on their eighth-grade basketball team. Both of them held promise for the high school team in a couple of years.

I once was asked to share with a group of people a time when I was overcome with thanksgiving. I, like most Americans, have a multitude of reasons to be thankful, but there was one thing for which I was so overwhelmingly thankful that everything else paled in comparison. The second place didn’t even come close. The thing was so intimate that I had never shared it with anyone, not even my wife. Yet, I found myself on stage in front of several hundred people unable to think of anything else. So, I prayed and asked God to give me the strength to communicate my experience.

Filled with emotion, a quivering voice, and tear-filled eyes I began:

I was home on fall break during my second year of college and decided to meet one of my best friends from high school to go to the high school football game. Dave was a 6’ 2” good looking guy, a good student, and an outstanding athlete. He was popular with both the guys and the girls, and the two of us had been co-captains of the basketball team when we were seniors. As we walked around during half time, visiting with old friends and some under classmen who still remembered us, a kid came up to us and just seemed overjoyed to see Dave. Dave appeared to be genuinely happy to see him as well. When we got back to our seats I asked Dave what that was all about. “Is he a relative of yours?” “No”, he replied. “Well, he seemed so excited to see you.” “His name is Danny Redford. He was in my Phys.Ed. Class when I was a senior.” “Right,” I said with a laugh. ”He can’t be more than a sophomore now.” “Seriously,” Dave said, “he was in my Phys. Ed. Class, or maybe I should say I was in his Phys. Ed. Class.” Dave went on to explain that when basketball season was over our senior year, he had to pick up a phys. ed. credit in order to graduate. Because of scheduling conflicts, he couldn’t get into a senior high phys. ed. class, so the principal put him in a junior high class. At that I cracked up. “You, the best athlete in our class, had to take phys. ed. with 7th and 8th graders? You sure kept that quiet. How did that work out?” I asked.