Don't Let the Fire Go Out

What is the use of living if it be not to strive for noble causes and to make this muddled world a better place for those who will have it after we are gone. --Winston Churchill

This is not a sad book. If you're looking for a good cry, put this book back on the shelf and look elsewhere. This book is only sad like Good Friday is sad. Like Easter Sunday morning, it is packed with hope and joy. The theme within these pages is as ancient as the prophet's words and as recent as the poetry of Maya Angelou.

"If I fall, I shall rise!"

It's an assurance I see reaffirmed each morning as the sun comes streaming through my bedroom window.

But how do we cope with "the thousand natural shocks that the flesh is heir to"--some that pierce the heart and cripple the will? How do we respond to the unexplainable, the unpredictable, and the unplanned events that shake the foundation of our being?

I was spared having to deal with any major trauma for more than a half century. Not many people can say that. The "Big D" words had never been a part of my life: Death, Disease, Divorce, Debt, Disappointment, Depression, Disaster, Disillusionment, and Doubt. But, as I found out, that can change in a moment and without notice.

I was reeling and groping for answers following the loss of my husband, Mel, my oldest son, Randy, and our longtime staffer, Cris Sifford. Nine months after the plane crash that took their lives, a fire destroyed my home. Later, an anthrax-laced envelope was unleashed in my Washington office building, and the following year I lost my election bid for the U.S. Senate. I found many reasons to wallow in self-pity, remorse, and second-guessing. (I could write another book on that alone.)

My frenzied search for answers was not unlike that of the proverbial dog chasing his tail. There was no end to be found, no victory, only frustration and failure. "What might have been" tantalized my imagination but served no purpose.

In time, I made a wonderful discovery!

If the happenings of the last several years have taught me anything, it is that the human spirit, as well as our national purpose, can be rekindled by small acts of courage performed by ordinary people. We need not be cowed by weighty events, feeling we are unequipped to handle what comes our way. There's a God's plenty of courage within each of us, ready to be activated on a moment's notice.

One of my favorite heroines understood the strength of bold deeds. Harriet Tubman, the former slave, ushered hundreds of slaves to a new life in Canada. No one who started the journey under her guidance was allowed to turn back. All along the treacherous path, she buoyed their flagging spirits with words of inspiration.

"Children, if you're tired, keep going. If you're hungry, keep going. If you're scared, keep going.
If you want to taste freedom, keep going."

I think this hearty woman was on to something!

Ignore what you feel or fear.

Act! Act decisively! Act now!

By definition, courage is doing what we're afraid to do. The key word is doing. When we act in the face of fear or uncertainty, our smallest deeds are amplified beyond measure.

I recall Mel or Randy, bending over the fireplace on wintry mornings, stoking the languishing embers that nearly went out during the night. By blowing on the coals and adding more wood, they rekindled a warm blaze that I had thought would be impossible to recover. The breath from their bodies brought the fire back to life.

To me the fire is a splendid metaphor for life. Sometimes raging and fervent, sometimes glowing softly and evenly, other times reduced to struggling embers. In her funeral oration, my daughter, Robin, told of her Dad starting a warm blaze in the fireplace on a cold morning. In his last words before leaving the house, he would admonish those remaining at home, "Don't let the fire go out."

During the 2000 election, the phrase became the rallying cry for supporters wanting to revive what appeared to be a lost cause. Within days, a political campaign halted during a disastrous hour was transformed into a hopeful movement. We were warmed by the "helper's high" that comes to those who pitch in and give themselves wholeheartedly to a cause.

During those few weeks in October, our lives touched in common purpose, enabling us to do extraordinary things never thought possible. We discovered that like the loaves and fish in the biblical story, courage could be passed around, shared, and multiplied to great benefit.

On Election Day, a majority of Missouri voters did something that had never been done before. With my husband's name still on the ballot, they gave him a final vote of confidence, the last and greatest honor they could bestow on their beloved governor. For the first and only time in our nation's history, a candidate was elected to the U.S. Senate posthumously. The faith and trust of Missouri voters empowered me for the task that was then mine. I took Mel's place in the U.S. Senate.

By not accepting defeat, we reframed reality--like the elderly man, looking into the mirror, who dismissed his image, saying, "Mirrors just aren't what they used to be."

Life is not what we see in a mirror. Within each of us, regardless of age or circumstance, is an indomitable spirit waiting to be tapped, wanting to shape a new reality that enables us in remarkable and unprecedented ways. Each decision I made, each determined step I took, fueled my strength. I still marvel at the "unintended courage" that bubbles up from within when it is needed. There are still times when I think: "Did I do that? Did I say that? How was I able?"

Fortunately, we are not alone in our efforts to bestir courage. Never underestimate the strength that comes from a hug, a smile, or an encouraging word from those around us.

Albert Schweitzer was right. He observed, "In everyone's life, at some time, our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being. We should all be thankful for those people who rekindle the inner spirit."

Indeed, I am.

Had it not been for the heartening advice of a friend and writer, Inda Schaenen, I would never have written this book. After the 2002 election, I had abandoned the idea. A publisher had earlier assured me that if I won reelection, my book would sell "like hotcakes."We admire winners; we ignore losers.

But Inda would not let me give up, though I was convinced that there was no interest in a story without a Cinderella ending.

I was wrong. After all, for most of us, life is more conquest than victory. More story than glory. Life is about squandering ourselves for a good and godly purpose. Mostly it's about stoking the fire.

Life is not the way it's supposed to be. It's the way it is. The way you cope with it is what makes the difference. ~Virginia Satir

For most of us, life is built on certain assumptions;

. . . that our loved ones will come home for dinner;

. . . that we will share the day's events together;

. . . that we will wake up the next morning to our usual routine;

. . . that we will grow old together and enjoy grandchildren and retirement.

But all that can change in the blink of an eye.

It did for me.

The moment was Monday, October 16, 2000, at 7:33 p.m.

Monday had started much like any other at the Missouri Governor's Mansion. Mel and I had been in the old, Victorian home for nearly eight years. In just three weeks we would know whether he would move on to the U.S. Senate as the past two governors of Missouri had done. But running against John Ashcroft, the current senator, was no easy task. Still, Mel had performed well at the debate the previous night, and the latest polls showed him pulling ahead.

He had been to the gym that morning for the hour of exercise, stretching, and weight lifting that had become a regular part of his routine, even though it meant getting up before 6:00 a.m. I was already in my office in the family quarters on the second floor, preparing to fly to northeast Missouri. During the day, I would visit several schools and libraries and do a few press interviews about education. It was a topic dear to both our hearts. During Mel's first year as governor, he had fought successfully for the largest funding increase in history for Missouri's public schools.

Both of us were running behind. As I shuffled papers on my desk, I caught a glimpse of Mel, briefcase in hand, moving at full stride toward the elevator that would take him to the basement exit, where a car waited. We blew each other a goodbye kiss from across the hallway.

"See you tonight," he said, just as he had so many times before. "Hope your day goes well," he added, knowing that I did not adjust as easily as he did to a tight travel and speaking schedule.

It was not a physically strenuous day for me, yet I was bone-tired when I arrived back at the Governor's Mansion late that afternoon. Meeting so many people, listening, responding to questions, catching names, making speeches, giving interviews can be wearing.

I worked my way through the mail on my desk and turned to the final chore of the day, writing my speech to deliver to a group of senior citizens the next morning. I was so completely absorbed that the sound of the telephone startled me.

It was Mel.

Randy was preparing to fly his father and Chris to New Madrid for a meeting with African American leaders. The roar of the engines in the background made it difficult for us to speak very long.

"You can tell me all about your school visits when I get back," he said. "I'll be home earlier than I thought. Save me some dinner," he added, as we unknowingly shared our last words with each other.

I hung up and returned to the computer screen, trying to dredge up some words of inspiration for my next day's audience. Less than an hour later, the phone rang again. This time it was Alan Walton, one of the governor's security guards who staffed the mansion from a command post in the basement.

"Can I come up to see you?" he asked.

It was an unusual request, I thought. Perhaps he needed to discuss a travel or security matter with me. Within minutes he entered the room, approached the desk, and, without saying a word, dropped to one knee so that we were eye to eye. As he reached out to take my hand, I knew . . . I knew what had happened before he ever spoke.

"The plane is missing," he said haltingly. "The governor and Randy and Chris were onboard."

Stunned with disbelief, I stood up from my desk. Dazed. How can this be? I had just talked to Mel minutes ago from the plane.

"Do the children know?" I asked.

"No, we are trying to get hold of them now."

When he returned to his post, I was all alone, as alone as I have ever been.

"This isn't happening," I thought. "Not to Mel, not to Randy . . . Chris. They were all so cautious. This happens to other people, not to them . . . not our family."

For a moment, I was stirred by hope. Maybe they survived. But in my heart, I knew it was unlikely.

My eyes scanned the room, unable to focus on anything. Familiar objects appeared meaningless, distant. The items on my desk all seemed strangely hollow and insignificant, as though there was no longer any context in which they fit. The computer, where I had earlier been working on a speech, was now frozen in time, leaving a half-finished sentence dangling on the screen. The painstakingly assembled schedule for the final three weeks of the campaign lay on the desk. Now it was just wastepaper to be swept into the trash basket.

Everything seemed pointless . . . irrelevant.

My eye paused on the wall of family pictures. Pictures of Mel and me. Of Randy. Of our other three children, daughter-in-law, and grandsons. Of happy, precious moments captured and forever preserved. All were reminders of how our lives were linked so tightly . . . so lovingly over the years. Mel and Jean . . It had always been that way, ever since we were high school sweethearts.

It would be hours before our three children and two grandsons arrived in Jefferson City. A retired Methodist minister, whom I barely knew, decided on his own that he might be of help. The Rev. Gene Rooney had heard the news and felt compelled to be there with me until my family arrived. His presence, his prayers, his assuring manner convinced me that there are, indeed, times when we are served by "angels unaware."

John Beakley, a staffer from the governor's office and family friend, arrived to join me for the long night vigil

About 1:00 a.m. the phone rang.

"The president is on the line," John said. "Do you want to take the call?"

"Of course," I said, knowing from experience how difficult it was to make such calls, but how meaningful they are to hurting people.

"Mr. President, it is so kind of you to call."

"I just heard the news. I'm here in Cairo now. We're having an emergency summit with Israeli and Palestinian leaders, but I'll be back this week. Is there anything I can do to help?

I assured him that I was being cared for well. We talked about Mel.

"I will never forget that he supported me when I was lower than a snake's belly in the polls. You remember that?" he asked.

I certainly did. In 1992, Mel went out on a limb and against the advice of his staff announced his support of Bill Clinton. The president never forgot that.

My children arrived between 1:00 and 3:00 a.m., some of them having been brought by a highway patrol car from their homes in St. Louis, two hours away. By then reality had begun to take hold in different ways for each of us. But we all knew that from that moment on, nothing in our lives would ever be the same.

We grappled to put together the pieces of the day. Where we had been. When we last spoke. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't reconstruct much of that last telephone conversation. It had been so . . . ordinary. Much like the hundreds we had over the last year. We stayed in contact, trying to keep some order to our lives in the frenzied political campaign that his race for the U.S. Senate had imposed on his already demanding duties as governor.

Tom recalled having been with his Dad, brother, and Chris at a fund-raiser in St. Louis. The weather in the immediate area was dreary, but other instrument-equipped planes were coming and going that evening. Before leaving, Tom had turned to Randy and said, "Be careful, the weather doesn't look too good."

To which Randy replied, in a statement that now seemed prophetic, "Yeah, but it's better where we're going."

Perhaps the most haunting recollection was of an incident that happened on Sunday evening, prior to the senatorial television debate. In retrospect, it seemed like an eerie scene from a bad film. Mel, the family, and the staff were all crowded into a small anteroom at an auditorium in Kansas City, waiting for the debate with John Ashcroft. I suggested that everyone leave and let Mel lie down on a raised, padded table in the middle of the room that looked much like a solid-based massage table. Mel took the few moments to stretch out, close his eyes, and relax before going onstage.

As staff and family passed the table to leave the room, everyone gave Mel some final words of encouragement. But Chris Sifford, whose father was an undertaker, turned to me as he left.

"I can't watch this," he said with feigned humor. "I've been around funeral homes too long."

I dismissed the strange feeling we all had at the scene before us. There were more urgent things to consider. I reached over and gave Mel a brief kiss, and we all left him alone for some final moments of solitude. Exactly twenty-four hours later, three who were in that room would be dead.

It was a strange and perplexing moment to recall.

For the next four days, I was cloistered within the mansion, planning the details of a state funeral. But before I could focus on that, I was asked to make a statement concerning the presidential debate scheduled for the next evening in St. Louis. A statement from me would alleviate concerns that the television stations and the candidates had in continuing with the event. I found it helpful, personally, to put my feelings into words.

The sadness that now engulfs our family would be unbearable except for the support of friends and our firm and abiding faith in a loving God. My husband sincerely believed that government could be honest, good, and noble, just as the founders of our nation meant for it to be. He devoted his life to fighting for the principles of justice, freedom, and opportunity wherever it was needed. Because my husband cherished our democracy and its expression, he would very much want the debate scheduled for tonight to go on. We are honored that it is being held in the state that Mel, Randy, and Chris loved so much.

I returned to the more ponderous decisions involved in preparing for three funeral services on successive days. Precedent is both a comfort and a guide in such times. Only one other Missouri governor, John Marmaduke, had died while living in the old Victorian mansion.

Back in 1887, the fifty-four-year-old governor lay in state in the mansion's Great Hall as the townspeople filed through to pay their respects to the beloved statesman and general. The next day, in his honor, thousands of mourners walked the quarter mile to the cemetery in the rain for the final rites. I would follow that precedent, except that the walk would be to the outdoor service at the Capitol, two blocks away.

I could not believe it when the marble catafalque upon which Marmaduke's casket had rested was uncovered somewhere in the Capitol.

"Do you want to use it?" asked the national guardsman overseeing the arrangements.

"Yes, by all means."

I was less decisive when asked if I wanted a horse-drawn carriage from the local funeral home.

"Wouldn't a caisson with a military escort be more appropriate for a state funeral?" my daughter, Robin, inquired.

"There's none to be found in the Midwest," the officer replied.

"Can we get one from Arlington Cemetery?" she pressed.

"Possibly. But let's not count on it. The time is so short."

I have no idea how the National Guard was able to acquire a caisson within a few days, but one arrived from Alabama in time for the funeral.

Of even more concern was the weather. As it turned out, the day was mild enough for the mass processional of walkers who followed the caisson over the two-block route from the Governor's Mansion to the State Capitol.

The solemn assemblage included President and Mrs. Clinton, Vice President and Mrs. Gore, and a score of senators, congressmen, and governors, along with thousands of friends, children, and state workers who came to pay their respects.

The music was heart lifting. I was especially touched by the choir of nearly one hundred children singing the simple but assuring words of the old hymn, "Jesus Loves Me, This I Know." It was an uncomplicated theology, but one on which I had always relied.

Each speaker rose to the occasion.

Former senator Thomas Eagleton evoked the memory of Missouri’s favorite son. “There was much of Harry Truman in Mel Carnahan . . . No slick package, no phony spin . . . a decent, honorable, forthright, quiet, courageous man.”

New governor Roger Wilson said, “Mel Carnahan loved children. . . . His legacy lives in every schoolhouse and in every child.”

My son Russ spoke in similar fashion. “His life was about education. He was a teacher at heart. . . . As governor he carried the hopes and dreams of so many Missourians. Dad we love you. We will remember your example . . . .we will honor your legacy.”

My daughter was also among those who spoke. She told what it was like sitting at the dinner table of a family committed to public service.

"We learned about the promise of our democracy . . . and just a little bit about the Democratic Party," she said, masking a tear with a soft smile.

"But more important, we learned that government can make a difference in people's lives and that one individual can make a difference in government."

Yes! That was exactly what Mel wanted his family and staff to know. He believed that with all his heart.

She continued.

To me, he was always Dad. His jobs and his title never changed him. He was shy, really. At home, just as in public, he was quiet and kind and gentle. During the forty-six years he and my mother spent together, they inspired anyone who saw them. The most striking thing is that he never preached and he never lectured. Instead, he taught by example. . . .

Robin had struggled to find a closing for the eulogy until I reminded her of what Mel often said to the family before leaving the house on a chilly morning. She recalled that memory at the close of her remarks.

One of my fondest memories growing up was coming downstairs on a winter morning and seeing a warm, glowing, bright fire in the fireplace.

Dad would get up early and light the fire and, without fail, before he walked out the door in the morning to go to work he'd say, "Don't let the fire go out."

So, I'm here today to say, "Dad, I promise: We won't let the fire go out."

Little did I know that in the weeks ahead that simple phrase would become a rallying cry to be displayed on hand-drawn posters and hastily printed onto bumper stickers and buttons.

Secluded within the confines of the mansion, I was cut off from the reaction of people all over the state and nation. I could not bring myself to watch television or read the newspaper then, or for the next few weeks. Still, I sensed that something was happening from the number of cards, gifts, and notes that poured into the mansion. Thousands and thousands of letters! I couldn't read them all, but I insisted that they be recorded and stored so they could be acknowledged.

The funeral ended with the mournful sound of a single bagpipe playing Amazing Grace. The earlier flyover by the F-15 "Missing Man" squadron from Whiteman Air Force Base called for one plane to break from formation, making a sharp upward zoom into the atmosphere. It was spectacular! I couldn't help but think of what Sojourner Truth said, "I'm not going to die. I'm going home like a shooting star!"

Still, I was later told the air display was less dramatic than it should have been. The extended flying time caused by the length of the service used the extra fuel required for the planned finale.

Back at the mansion following the funeral, I looked from the window to see hundreds of men, women, and children standing along the black wrought-iron fence that surrounds the yard. Visitors had turned the area into a wall of remembrance, posting pictures, flowers, flags, and candles along the full length of the fence.

One drawing of a flag was done by a child and included such tender, consoling words: "I believe in you Mrs. Carnahan. I know you miss them and so do I. You can make it through the rest of your life. Love, Elise." A photo of the drawing still hangs on my wall.

Later another youngster would give me a small purple frog, his favorite toy. He said it would make me "feel better." And he was right. The purple "Feel Better" frog would travel with me from then on as a reminder that love makes all things better.

We were to leave soon after the funeral, driving in a procession along the country roads that led to our hometown of Rolla, more than an hour away.

"Hurry," I was told repeatedly. "We need to be leaving. People are waiting."

For some reason, I interpreted that to mean people were waiting outside to see me, as were many others inside the mansion. So I lingered to visit.

It was dusk by the time we got on the road. Only then did I realize what was happening. In each of the small towns through which we passed--Westphalia, Freeburg, Vienna, Vichy--people were standing along the road, on their porches, in the fields, waiting to pay their respects.

"They've been here for hours. The communities have been in contact with the mansion wanting to know when to expect the procession to pass through their town," a security officer informed me.

As I looked from the tinted windows of the limousine that carried our family, I couldn't believe what I was seeing! People standing somberly, holding candles, signs, flags, forming a human corridor through each town we passed. Between towns, cars pulled off the road, their occupants often standing alongside, hat or hand over the heart. I had never felt, or seen, a more tender and sincere outpouring of sympathy.

"Don't let the fire go out," the words Robin had spoken earlier that day, were already appearing on signs. But one poster in particular caught my eye.

"You Can Do It, Jean," it read in large bold letters.

"What do they mean by that?" I asked.

"They want you to carry on this race for Dad," one of the kids said gently, almost as though the subject was too difficult to broach at the time.

I dismissed the idea, as I had an earlier reference that day when the St. Louis Black Clergy Coalition had visited with me. We had met in the family quarters on the second floor for a time of prayer just before the funeral.

In the group was Pastor B. T. Rice, a dear friend and supporter of my husband. I later learned that, within hours of the crash, he had experienced an epiphany of sorts. He felt an urgency in suggesting that I take Mel's Senate seat. Counseled against broaching the subject too soon, he had first cleared the way with my children.

"It would be a great honor to the governor's memory if the mantle of his leadership fell upon your shoulders," he told me. I was touched by his confidence.

"But whatever you do, we're behind you," the group had indicated. At the time, I was intent on making it physically and emotionally through the next three days.

Our journey home took several hours. Randy's funeral would be the next day at the local Baptist church surrounded by old friends and fond memories. We had raised our family in that church. Mel had sung in the choir, served as deacon, and chaired the building committee. Both Randy and I had taught Sunday school there for many years. I found comfort in the familiar faces and the memories within those church walls.

There was yet another funeral the next day, some two hours away in the Bootheel area of southeast Missouri. For that, I needed to muster all the strength I could in order to speak at the memorial service for 37-year-old Chris Sifford, Mel's loyal and talented campaign aide.

I had initially declined to be an active participant, feeling there was no way I could handle it emotionally. But I soon realized that it was important for me to speak what was in my heart. I wanted to express our family's love and gratitude for this wonderful young man as his grieving father laid his son to rest. My being there meant a lot to the Siffords, but it also had meaning for me.

At such times, it is difficult to use humor in a speech, but I felt that I had to tell a story about Chris that so typified his good nature. One day when Randy was flying Chris and me to Branson for an event, the two of us spent the time sitting knee-to-knee in the back of the small aircraft, talking and laughing. When I arrived at the event and stopped in the ladies' room to freshen up, I noticed I had inadvertently put on unmatched earrings. When I joined Chris, I jokingly chided him for his failure to mention it.

"I can't believe that you sat across from me during the entire plane trip and never noticed that I had on earrings that didn't match."

A smile lit up his face as he hugged me and said, "Jean, I have never noticed anything wrong with you. You always look good to me." Chris knew the right thing to say whether he was dealing with the press corps or reassuring the First Lady.

It was a week of incomparable sadness both for our families and for our state.

The journey ended for Randy, 44, and Mel, 66, in a remote cemetery in Wayne County, where they were buried alongside relatives who had settled in the Ozark hills a century and a half earlier.

In the twilight, as the fading sunlight etched the horizon, the minister lifted our hearts in prayer. A bird chirped pleasantly in the nearby pasture. A gentle breeze rippled through the autumn leaves. A child who had climbed onto a tree branch watched the solemn ritual from a different perspective.

Nearby the little clapboard church looked out over the old graveyard, a guardian of many memories and a storehouse of countless sorrows.

At the conclusion, my son Tom asked each person there to pick up a small stone and place it upon the grave marker as a sign of our presence. It's an ancient custom that we saw observed in Israel. One colorful adornment to the site was a Tibetan prayer flag sent by Randy's fellow mountain-climbers as a memento of an earlier Mount Everest adventure.

It would be a year before I had permanent markers affixed upon the graves, but I knew what I wanted. For Randy--the rock climber, pilot, runner, and outdoorsman--a rough-hewn piece of Missouri red granite with one smooth area for the inscription from Isaiah: "I will bear you up on eagles' wings and bring you unto Myself." For Mel, an obelisk with a simple inscription: "Mel Carnahan, a servant of God and the people."

I left the cemetery uncertain of what would happen next. Tragedy and heartache churn up such raw feelings: loneliness, despair, confusion, a search for meaning. As when lost in a forest, it is not always apparent in which direction to turn.

I wrote a brief statement reflecting my feelings and released it to the media.

It seems that I have lived a lifetime in a span of days . . . discovered a multitude of things about myself, my family, and others that are revealed only in times of great sorrow. Never let anyone tell you that prayers can't be felt or that hugs don't help. I have been encircled by thousands, and they are the only thing that makes the hours bearable. And I have seen the goodness of God in the faces of countless mourners who lined the roads and towns along the way. While I still ponder the mysteries of God, I do not for a moment doubt His purpose or His love for us. My family and I thank the people of Missouri for every expression of that love.