The Unwritten Chapter (A Thanksgiving Memory)

Dear Friends,

We sat a year ago in this very spot.

It was Thanksgiving morning, 2024.

I don’t know if I had instrumental Christmas music on or not, as I do now. I doubt I did, given the magnitude of the task I had reserved for that Thanksgiving morning.

I had planned to write the final chapter of the total "re-write” of our 1989 memoir that morning, this time entitled Crossing the Georgia Line. The master's thesis version in ’89 was simply Pup, the nickname tagged to the young Billy Ray in the summer of 1973 by his mentor and tormentor, the notorious Doocy—him with the missing teeth, attitude problem, and the trademark of referring to himself only in the third person. It was always “Doocy,” or “the Breeze,” or the “Cool Breeze,” whichever best fit the moment.

The amazin’ blonde was in the kitchen a year ago—just as she is now—going about her business, getting things ready for Thanksgiving dinner.

I called out to her respectfully as I sat down with my laptop in my lap,

“Don’t bother me for the next three hours, please. I’m writin’ the ending to our story this mornin’.”

I say our story because it belongs to all of us. We, indeed, are “part of all that we have met.”

So, the task began. I scrolled back up to Chapter 92, the last chapter I had written the morning before. Mornings are my “inspiration” time, so I waited the twenty hours until the next day, Thanksgiving, to approach what I considered almost a sacred chapter. Anything of this magnitude owes all of its success to the Lord, that we know.

In fact, I thought the Lord had given us a clarity of mind and a double portion of inspiration over the last month of writing. Elisha isn’t the only one to whom a mantle of sorts falls from the sky.

Let’s give ourselves very little credit for any blessings that we have or any abilities we possess. The glory goes to the Lord, and we can but say with the psalmist,

Bless the Lord, O my soul, all that is within me, bless His holy name.”

David had a double portion, too—well, his was a hundred-fold, but I’m very thankful for my double portion.

I scrolled back to Chapter 92 and began to read, revise, and edit a “here a little, there a little,” as Isaiah says.

Then I had the epiphany. 

 I didn’t need to write the final chapter.

I had already written it.

Chapter 92, I thought, may have been the perfect ending to the long story told in over 150,000 words. It all began on a stormy Monday morning, June 4, 1973, up on an top of that iconic Roanoke, Alabama hilltop, and perhaps the ending was just as it was supposed to be.

I merely had to write a short Epilogue to wrap the story tightly and put a symbolic bow on it. The Epilogue was about a hundred words long.

Thanksgiving of 2024, a year ago this very hour, saw the ending of the story.

It was more than a little emotional, I will admit. It is hard to let go of something that has been such a big part of us, really, for over thirty-five years, as the original work set undisturbed. The story had been a catharsis back in 1989, and, as history repeats itself, it had been therapy again for some of life’s more contemporary choppy waters.

We all understand well.

One year later—as of Monday of this week—the amazin’ blonde accepted the honor of taking the 500-page manuscript to box it up, seal it, and send it to our Oklahoma City publisher. The same publisher published for our great friend Roy Deering, our fellow writer and teacher (both in literature and the gospel), and hiking partner. Without him, I would not have had the privilege of getting lost in Yellowstone. I am glad to pay tribute to Roy here. We lost him six months after our last hike to the Absaroka Wilderness in Yellowstone in July of 2024. I will think of him all through the publishing process and beyond.

The job was not finished, though, on Thanksgiving of 2024. The next year saw hundreds of hours of concentrated editing, revising, reliving, and prayer.

It would be January 1 before we thought we had “finished” the work and tested the publishing waters, but there was still much more work to do over the next eleven months. Revising requires five or six more journeys through the story, making significant changes at times and requiring a great deal of “wordsmithing.” A manuscript is much like we ourselves: It takes a great deal of work to get it right.

Other blessings came with Crossing the Georgia Line.

Since last Thanksgiving, we've been able to make contact with a number of the “cast members” of one of the great stories I’ve witnessed and was blessed to be part of. We learned that several of our loved ones from the summer of ’73 had gone on. But they will always hold them close, for they occupy special places in the story of the summer of ‘73.

Then, in July of this year, we were able to take a memorable ride, only for the second time since 1973, up that iconic red-dirt drive that leads up to the house where much of the story took place once we crossed that Georgia line. A great part of our history lies up on that beautiful southern Alabama hill, and a significant part of our growing up. It was a nervous journey, for you don't know what fifty years will do to people or places. But there was not an ounce of disappointment in the visit.

We sat and talked for a long time to our “Mr. McClain,” now in his nineties and as spry as I remembered back then. He remembered much of that summer, including the night an “unnamed” young man brought his daughter home late from a date. "My wife and I weren't happy about that," he said. I just shook my head and smiled. I sure wish I’d bought me a better watch back then.

Another blessing awaited in a living room near the bottom of that Alabama hill. We reunited with our sweet fourteen-year-old tomboy friend from the story. Oh, our “Alane” (most names have been changed) isn’t fourteen anymore—although it will be hard for her not always to be that in my mind—but she is an elegant lady (but still part tomboy) with a husband as real as anyone I’ve ever met. I noticed that Ms. Alane’s kitchen table was spread with her morning Bible studies. That says enough.

Their extended family was all well despite one significant loss, a Southern belle whom we celebrated all throughout Crossing the Georgia Line, even to the very end.   

The thanksgivings abound as well here out west, many miles away from that story. Earlier this month, our children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews, brothers and sisters, and great friends for a lifetime gathered for the amazin' blonde's and my fiftieth-year celebration. Our family is all well, and the Lord has graciously smiled down on us throughout the journey.

These two stories, though far apart geographically, are not really as far apart as they may seem, because we are all part of each other. The events of 1973 shaped the events we celebrated in 2025.

That connection is what led to the re-telling of the drama to my grandson Connor Reed, who is the "Cheyenne" of the story.

About those two fifty-year anniversaries—Without a doubt, they mark the events the poet would say "made all the difference."

Indeed.

Finally, back to that unwritten chapter.

I’ve been pondering that. Maybe it becomes symbolic of all our lives. We think sometimes that we need to get up early and proceed to write those final chapters of our lives, striving to fulfill all the unfulfilled dreams and who knows what all.

But, perhaps … perhaps we need to think less of writing our own chapters and realize that the best chapters of our lives are the ones we leave unwritten. Maybe we would do well to stroll along our Christian walk as best we can, then let the Lord write the Epilogue as He sees fit.

He’ll know how to seal it just right.

For that realization—and for all other blessings that abound in your lives and ours—we come before His presence again, today, with Thanksgiving, just as we did one year ago.

I am glad you came along with us today to share!

God bless!

Steven B

Thanksgiving Day

11

-27-25