Vicki's Message

Vicki Lynn Mickelsen, August 22, 1955—July 19, 1973.

In the summer of ’73, Fawnete turned eleven. I turned twelve. We lived just a few miles apart. We couldn’t have known how that summer would connect us. We talked about it again just yesterday.

As Fawnete remembered, she was touched by the farm accident that took my brother’s life that June. Perhaps that’s one reason she leapt at the invitation to go for a ride with her 17-year-old sister that July. Being with Vicki had always felt special.

As Vicki and her friend approached the door to leave, something changed. She turned and placed her hand on her little sister’s shoulder. In a compassionate and unusually mature voice, she said, “Not today, Fawnete. You can come with me another time, but not now. I love you.”

Those turned out to be Vicki’s last words to Fawnete. Later that day, the horrible news of the car crash changed their relationship forever.

Five years later, Fawnete started dating Clay, a wonderful soul whom she later married. Clay’s mother told Fawnete, “I knew a Mickelsen once.” She recalled a car crash and explained how she’d been first on the scene.

“That’s my sister,” Fawnete said.

Clay’s mother recalled how she’d found Vicki conscious and speaking, and how Vicki had used her last breath to say, “Tell my family I love them.”

Vicki’s final message couldn’t be mistaken or forgotten. She’d told Fawnete face-to-face, and she’d safely entrusted it to Fawnete’s yet-to-be mother-in-law to be reiterated five years later.

My brother had to come back from beyond the veil to tell me, but he delivered his message. Our loved ones know how and when to communicate with us. We just need to listen.