Tribute to Jean Fry

When I try to explain to folks how I knew Jean Fry, it always starts with her son, Paul.  He was an 8th grader in my Language Arts class who then took German from me as a 9th grader.  Jean and I met because of that connection.  We became friends because of our deeper connection through the Lord Jesus Christ.

When I had Paul as a student, I was an inexperienced second-year teacher and then a mildly cocky third-year teacher.  I was largely clueless, but well-intentioned.  I think Jean got that.  I don't remember why, but toward the end of the year there were multiple occasions when Jean and I ended up in long discussions after school.  Maybe Paul was staying after school for something?  In my room?  I seriously have no recollection about Paul, but I remember laughing with Jean (perhaps at Paul's expense) and feeling so encouraged by her.

Keep in mind, the Fry Family was headed to Germany for the next three years with the military.  Jean's world was mildly chaotic at this time, yet here she was giving support and encouragement to a young teacher.  Later Jean would claim that I was somehow helpful to her son during this time, but all I did was sword fight with him and his buddies during class using a really cool inflatable Sock Em Bop Em and an equally cool light saber with sound effects.  (Remember, clueless.)

Yep.  It's blurry, but the evidence is there.  How much German can this student speak?  Probably not much, but he knows how to parry a blow.

Over the next three years Jean and I stayed in touch via email.  We even attended Paul's high school graduation online, in our pajamas. :-)  It was NOT a two-way camera.  And then they were back!

Part of my tribute to Jean has to include the quality of the son that she raised.  Paul came to visit me in my classroom, either his first or second day back in the states.  I was seven months pregnant with Luke and it was the last week of school, perhaps the second to the last day.  It was time to pack up and move on.  I knew I wasn't returning to teaching, so there was six years worth of stuff to pack, toss, or give away.  Erik had already taken the day off work to be there.  Paul showed up and helped.  It took hours.  I know he had other folks to see, and he was on a limited time budget as he was headed to the Air Force Academy soon.  He helped anyway, telling me what to keep and what to toss.  Seriously.  Military folks understand minimalism.  Over and over again Paul would see me sneaking something into a box and he would say, "You don't need that."  "But it's a super bendy, extra long, neon green pencil."  "You don't need that."  I think Erik was SUPER grateful to have Paul's help.  We already had Luke's name picked, but that was the day we decided that a second Bangsund boy would be named for Paul Fry.


I digress.  The next big thing in my friendship with Jean was the birth of our firstborn, Luke.  Remember the clueless young teacher?  Well, now I was an utterly clueless new mom.  Add to that our move to Portland during Luke's first year, and Erik's new job that requires some travel.  I was a bit of a mess.  Enter Jean Fry.  How is it that a woman who now lived 300 miles away was instrumental in my adjustment to a new life?  It's crazy, but Jean was in town a fair amount and our conversations were always fruitful.


At one point I was whining about Erik's travel.  To be fair, Erik had never traveled for work before and I was unaccustomed to his absence.  And Luke was still itty bitty.  Okay, I'll admit now, looking back, that caring for one baby should not have been that difficult.  But I was a whiner. ;-)  Anyway, Jean was visiting.  I was whining.  Jean was listening and being loving.  We were at my in-laws condo for some reason.  And as the two of us walked to the elevator at the end of her visit, she gently turned my attention to those whose spouses were deployed, in harm's way and far away from home for long periods of time.  A wave of gratitude washed over me.  My husband was in Las Vegas for a launch meeting.  He was not in a war zone.  He would be home in three days.  Thanks, Jean.  I needed that.

Jean is asking Luke a question.  Luke, 9 months old, can tell he's supposed to answer, hence the look of consternation.

Jean's visits continued to be at just the right moments.  My one rose bush was out of control and scary.  Jean arrived and taught me how to prune it while gently mocking me for being afraid of a flowering plant.  I was pregnant with our second born, nesting like crazy, and needing a reality check as I sat surrounded by cleaning supplies and cross stitch.  Jean's dry humor about the cross stitch cracked me up then and proved all too true.  "You'll finish it when he starts kindergarten."  Little Paul starts kindergarten this fall.  Guess what might finally get finished?

  Jean holds Baby Paul

As a mom, if I were to give myself a report card, one of the subjects that would have received an F- was potty training.  It took forever.  Jean was a never-ending source of hilarity during this time.  I've heard more stories about her Paul's potty training than I probably should have.  Sorry, dude.  But it kept me laughing HARD during a time when there were lots of not-so-funny things in my world.  And I think Jean would argue with that grade.  I can hear her asking, "Do they both use the toilet by themselves?"  "Yes. Finally."  "Then you pass!"  (She would have added a pun about passing...I miss you, Jean.)

On one occasion, after the birth of Baby Paul, Jean was visiting and I asked her, point blank, "How did you raise such an awesome son?"  (My highest compliments to Stephanie and Lisa, her two daughters.  You are also awesome, but I don't have girls.)  I waited expectantly for Jean's reply.  I can still hear that sweet, soft chuckle as she said, "I pretended to blow my nose in his armpit?  But be ready for the time when he actually does blow his nose in your armpit in return!"

That reply was so Jean.  It was humble.  She didn't think that she had done anything amazing to raise exceptional children.  And it had an underlying message.  Delight in your kids.  Play with them.  Don't take this job too seriously.

Sidenote:  The day I heard about Jean's diagnosis and prognosis, I began a new game with my boys.  No, I didn't start blowing my nose in their armpits...I'm too chicken.  But I begin asking them, "Whose nose is this?" as I point at their nose.  When they answer, "Mine!" I follow it up with a question like, "Are you sure?  Your name's not on it."  Or perhaps, "Really?  I like it.  Can I borrow it?"  It's totally ridiculous and both boys love it.  Thanks, again, Jean.

Steve and Jean came down for Luke's first birthday in August 2006.  Such a blessing.

On Monday when Courtney, Jean's daughter-in-law, texted me with the news of her passing, I was too sad to hide it from my boys.  My little Paul had some questions.  "Will she be alive again?" Theologically sound, BSF trained, Children's Pastor Amy took over and replied, "When Jesus returns, Mrs. Jean will be alive again.  And she gets to wait in heaven with Jesus right now."  I am so grateful for my nearly five year old's questions which prompt me to take Biblical truths and make them clear and comprehensible.  Sometimes I need the five year old version.

There's lots more to say about Jean.  We are headed north today for her Memorial Service.  I'm looking forward to basking in her memory and hearing all the stories.  I might even share a few.