I wear a silver St. Christopher medal around my neck that has more sentimental value than anything else in my life. Not so much because I am particularly pious, but because it hung around my grandfather’s neck for nearly 60 years.
I wear a silver St. Christopher medal around my neck that has more sentimental value than anything else in my life. Not so much because I am particularly pious, but because it hung around my grandfather’s neck for nearly 60 years.
The medal is big (about the size of a silver dollar), heavy, and features an oversized image of St. Christopher that, while at one time was clear and crisp, has been worn thin from decades of rubbing in between my grandfather’s chest and his button-down dress shirts.
As my grandmother would surely tell you, it protected him through his first two bouts with cancer — breast and prostate — and it was with him during his hard-fought battle against a third earlier this year.
We’ll get to the part where I thought the medal was lost forever. First, let’s back up 57 years.
My grandparents, Mary and William Leber, married each other in 1957. As a wedding gift, my grandmother gave my grandfather the sterling silver medal and chain. He wore it every single day, taking it off “only to shower,” as my grandmother tells it.
Two months ago, on March 20, my grandfather, hero and dear friend passed away, just weeks after being diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Our whole family flew to Michigan to be by his side and, in typical Capt. Leber fashion, he was smiling, laughing and singing until the very end.
Minutes after he passed, just after 4 a.m., my grandmother leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, took the medal from his neck and put it around mine. She told me (the oldest grandchild and, not by coincidence, named Christopher) to wear it always. If I did, it would keep me — just like it did him — safe. After all, Christopher is the patron saint of travelers.
And so I wear it, every day — even in the shower. Every morning, I feel it tugging on my neck. And when I brush my teeth, there it is, dangling in the mirror. It is a wonderful reminder of my grandfather and the beautiful person he was. How I should strive to be a better person, more like him.
But on Tuesday, on my way home from a weekend trip to San Francisco to visit family, my heart sank when I realized the medal was no longer under my shirt.
I was sitting in a window seat at 30,000-some-odd feet above the Pacific looking through family photos taken in the days leading up to his death. In one photo, my grandmother is leaning over his bed and smiling at him; the shiny medal hanging out from under his hospital gown. When I flipped to that photo and spotted the medal, I grabbed for my chest (as I do so often to make sure it is still there).
This time, I felt nothing. I panicked. My heart started racing. I began to sweat, and tore through my backpack in a desperate attempt to find it.
That’s when I remembered.
Along with everything else that might set off the airport metal detectors, I had taken St. Christopher off on my way through the TSA security checkpoint in Oakland. I knew I shouldn’t have. I remember thinking when I placed it in the bin, “That is a terrible place to put that. Whatever you do, don’t forget to pick it up on the other side!”
But in the 6 a.m. hustle and bustle of getting through security, I didn’t. I left it, sitting alone in the corner of the plastic container.
The disgust I felt with myself when I realized what I had done was overwhelming. While traveling, I had managed to leave the patron saint of travelers in an airport security bin. And I had done it on the day after Memorial Day (my grandfather was a Navy combat veteran of the Korean War and served 32 years in the Naval Reserve) and just one week after his ashes were buried at Jefferson Barracks Cemetery in St. Louis.
My grandfather had worn the medal for 57 years without losing it. I, on the other hand, lost it in less than three months. What kind of a person could be so careless? So stupid?
I reached for my phone, hoping I would somehow be able to send a text or make a call from high over ocean. Needless to say, that didn’t happen. With two more hours before our scheduled arrival, I had plenty of time to begin to imagine the worst. It being stacked with the other bins and getting picked up by another traveler. Someone melting it down to make a few extra bucks. Who knows?
I had to vent to someone. Sick to my stomach, I blurted out what had happened to a very nice woman next to me who was on her way to Kauai for a vacation with her family. I forget exactly what she said, but it was something along the lines of, “You never know. There are a lot of good, honest people out there.”
Her words gave me comfort. Maybe it wasn’t gone forever. Maybe a kind TSA agent spotted it and turned it in to lost and found. It was a possibility — I hoped.
When the plane’s wheels hit the tarmac in Lihue, a text I had tried to send to my sister hours before must have finally gone through. Or maybe in my panic, I sent it again. I can’t remember.
“Laura. I’m freaking out. I accidentally left grandpa’s chain in the security bin!!!” is what it said. “Still on the plane so can’t call Oakland airport.”
Before my plane made it to the gate, my sister had managed to call TSA and returned my text with one that read, “They have it!! I’m picking it up tomorrow.”
“Are you serious????” was my response.
Even after talking to her, I wasn’t 100 percent convinced. I needed more. I had to hear those words from TSA myself. When I called, a kind woman on the other end of the line told me she would be sure to keep it safe for me. She did, and my sister was able to pick it up the following day. She sent me a photo or it. Sure enough, there it was in her palm — the worn-down, silver St. Christopher that hung from my grandfather’s neck for so many years.
I suppose this is my way of saying thank you. Thank you to the TSA agents at Oakland International Airport for finding and keeping it safe. Let’s be perfectly honest. It’s not often that people take the time, or find a reason, to thank TSA.
Thank you to my sister for cleaning up after my absentmindedness and driving all the way to Oakland.
And thank you to my grandfather, who was most certainly keeping a protective eye on the medal for me.
In his obituary, our family was tasked with summarizing the life of a true family man. A man who was, in all seriousness, loved by everyone privileged enough to have met him. It wasn’t easy, but here’s what we came up with.
“His family will forever remember him for his selfless devotion to his faith and family, his generous heart and contagious smile. A man who knew the meaning of hard work but, above all, cherished time spent with loved ones, telling stories, slaving over his famous barbecued ribs, singing ‘Meet Me in St. Louis’ in that deep, resonant voice so many remember.”
Life hasn’t been the same since he passed. If fact, it’s been hard. But every morning when I wake up, and several times throughout each day, I feel that worn, heavy medal dangling around my neck, or catch a glimpse of it in the mirror, and am reminded that he is still with me.
