[title subtitle=”words: Marla Cantrell
Images: Nick Daniels, courtesy Patricia Brown-Crowe”][/title]
It was a morning of bad beginnings for Patricia Brown-Crowe. After waking, she says, she realized the HVAC unit at her Fort Smith, Arkansas home was on the fritz, which is no small thing in the South in the summer. And then, her husband Michael called to say his truck had broken down, and he was marooned across town with no way to get to work.
Patricia grins, conspiratorially, as if these two things, the air-conditioning failing and the truck revolting, were destined to become part of a bigger story. “I jumped in my car and went to pick Michael up, and then I realized I’d left my wig at home!” She laughs, like a woman whose default setting is laughter. “I just kept on going, driving along with my bald head showing,” she says. “What are you going to do?” she asks. “And get this. I got to bring him home, and we’re spending the whole day together!”
Michael walks in as she’s telling this story. He is blond, with square shoulders, and muscled arms that seem designed to protect. He squeezes her shoulder, and she leans into him, the two looking like the cover of some romance novel.
On the ring finger of Michael’s left hand is a band so new it still gleams when light hits it. Patricia holds out her left hand, showing the diamond ring that would sparkle even on a starless night. Their marriage is new—the wedding was just weeks before in May—and the two share that glow of great beginnings, of startling happiness.
For Patricia, Michael is the answer to a prayer she prayed in the summer of 2012, when the breast cancer she thought she’d beaten in 2005, returned in her right hip and in lymph nodes in her lungs. While she grappled with the news, she also thought about the desires of her heart, and then she had a little talk with Jesus. Patricia asked for a man who would love her to the moon and back, and for that love to last beyond a season. Her other three prayers were for a Godly husband for her daughter Amanda; to become an internationally-known motivational speaker; and to write a book.
Consider, for a moment, this turn of events. Patricia, who’d been storming through life (she has only one gear, and that gear is go), heard news that would cause even the most steady to stumble. And after she’d had a chance to process her new diagnosis, she still had the faith and grit to believe wonder and joy were just around the bend. “Those were not small prayers,” she says and touches the single pearl pendant that hangs from a thin chain around her neck. “But anything can happen if it’s God’s will.”
‘She’s the most positive, happiest person I’ve ever met in my life. She’s never down. Never gossips, never says a bad word about anybody.’ And then he says, ‘and look at her. She’s gorgeous.’ – Michael
Patricia, at fifty-something, is strikingly beautiful, her eyes the color of the bluest ocean. Her nails are painted blue and red. She wears slender black slacks and a brightly colored top that shows her pale shoulders. When she moves her hands, a pearl bracelet clinks against itself. Everything she says seems wise, in part because she is wise, and in part because she is looking at life from a precipice. The cancer that returned in 2012 has since spread to her brain, and she’s on a regimen of treatment she describes as a “trial for one.” Her oncologist, she says, is trying the same combination of drugs that is being used in a clinical trial she was just a bit too late to join.
“If we hadn’t tried this, I wouldn’t see Christmas,” she says, and then she turns the tables. “Is that hard for you to hear?” she asks, her concern for me unexpected, jolting, a rip in the veil that lets me witness her good heart.
For the most part, she does not feel unwell. She has effects from years of treatment that dog her, like tiny slips in her memory and less energy. She has pain in her jaw and mouth, a result of chemo. “And I can’t drink wine anymore!” She waves these complaints away, small distresses that don’t add up to much, she says, when you weigh them against getting to wake up every morning.
Patricia has felt the hand of God on her since she was a child. And while she doesn’t claim, or even want, to be called a saint (“I’ve lived life big!” she says), she is deeply devout. Which is why her pastor, Phillip Blackburn, asked her to preach one Sunday morning at First Presbyterian Church in Fort Smith, during Lent 2015.
The sermon was scheduled just days after she’d met Michael Crowe, on a Thursday night at Movie Lounge, where she was hanging out with her dear friend, Vonda Gardner, listening to local musician Larry B, who plays R&B and Jazz. Patricia was dancing when Michael spotted her, and she seemed to radiate joy. So he watched, this gorgeous woman who was leaving it all on the dance floor, and something in his heart opened.
Flirting is fun, and Patricia is particularly good at it. But she’s also wickedly honest. When she and Michael talked, she told him she had cancer, something she knew could stop the conversation and anything that might follow. But Michael wasn’t budging, and as their conversation continued, she told him about her upcoming sermon.
When Patricia looked out at the congregation on that bright Sunday morning, she saw the people she’d worshiped with for years, and then she spotted someone new. Michael was there, his face beatific, waiting to hear what she had to say.
In the next half hour, she talked about love and told the story of losing her brother, Jason, in a tragic accident when he was seven, and she was sixteen. On his headstone are these words: He taught us how to love.
Jason was born with Down syndrome, and it seemed to Patricia that he loved everyone who crossed his path. She talked about seeing him again, one day, in heaven, her kid brother with that heart of gold, with that divine light that shone so bright she could see it still.
If Michael had been infatuated before, he was bowled over now. This woman who had mesmerized him on the dance floor was deep and humble and infinitely kind. The two started spending time together, and of course, Patricia vetted him intensely. But every time she spoke to someone who knew him, they each said the same thing: He’s the nicest man I know.
And even though she’d prayed for three years for a man to love her to the moon and back, when it happened, she worried it was too late. I said, “I have cancer, and this could end badly. I could hurt you, and I don’t hurt people.”
Patricia might as well have said those words in a windstorm, the syllables being carried away as soon as she spoke them. Michael didn’t hear any of it. He wanted Patricia, whether it was for another hundred years or just one. And when he proposed, he did it over a series of weeks, recreating moments from Patricia’s favorite TV show, The Bachelor.
She laughs. That season of the reality show was set in Mexico, and Michael even found a poncho to wear. He brought her two dozen roses and asked her if she’d accept them. And then, for his finale, he offered her a diamond ring that shone with the light of heaven.
The wedding took place at First Presbyterian, the church she loves so much. It was supposed to be a small affair, but the number of guests rose as more and more of their close friends learned about the wedding. They spent the next week in Hot Springs, where they were so happy it felt like something from a movie.
As for Patricia’s other three prayers, they’ve been answered as well. She is an internationally-known speaker, having talked to groups of oncologists from across the globe, sharing her story of heartache and inspiration. Her daughter Amanda is now married to a Christian man Patricia adores. And Patricia has written a memoir, which is yet to be published.
These days, she volunteers her time helping non-profits with their marketing campaigns, drawing on her years as the CEO of the Make-A-Wish® Foundation Mid-South, her former charity work with PGA champion John Daly, and her time spent running the PGA Fort Smith Classic.
When she was in the golfing world, she learned a lot about event planning and hobnobbed with celebrities. And that’s what she was thinking about a couple of years ago when it seemed as if she was at the end of the road. Her dad, George Redden, taught her how to maneuver life: Figure out what the plan is, he’d tell her, and then work the plan. “Well, we’re all terminal,” Patricia says. “It’s just a matter of when.” It seemed at that time that her plan was to tie up loose ends, and so she got down to business.
“I decided I was going to have the biggest funeral this town had ever seen. With music and speakers. I started making calls. I called my buddy John Daly and asked him to play his guitar and sing one song. I think he thought I was crazy, but I said, ‘You’ll draw people in!’ And then I called Johnny Lee, who sang the country hit ‘Looking For Love In All The Wrong Places,’ and I told him what I was after. And he said, ‘You want me to clear my schedule for a funeral?’ And I said, ‘Johnny, I’ll be up in heaven talking to the Good Lord about you, and you don’t want me getting you in any trouble!’
Talking about that time, she says, “But of course I didn’t die. I had a prayer warrior from Memphis call me to say that my prognosis was wrong, and lo and behold, it was.” Patricia smiles. “I’ve had a front-row seat for miracles. If I die tomorrow, I’m good. I’ve said thank-you, and I love you to the people who need to hear it. I’ve asked forgiveness when I needed to. I’ve lived life large. I’m happy for the life that was given to me. Did I make a lot of mistakes? Yes, I did. Have I always been pure and moral and right? No. But I’ve always gotten back on track, and I’ve forgiven myself. I think people don’t forgive themselves, and then they’re caught in this evil place of guilt and shame, and that’s ridiculous. That’s Satan. Let it go. Let it go. Shake it off.”
The technician who’s been working on Patricia’s air-conditioning walks through her living room just then, assuring her that all is well. Michael comes in behind him and sits beside his new wife. I ask him what he loves about her, and he puts his arm around her before answering. “She’s the most positive, happiest person I’ve ever met in my life. She’s never down. Never gossips, never says a bad word about anybody.” And then he says, “and look at her. She’s gorgeous.”
Prayer is a funny thing. Sometimes we think we shouldn’t bother God unless we have a problem worth mentioning. Cancer is one of those problems. An empty bank account is another. But four years ago, Patricia knew God was listening as she told Him she needed a man to love her to the moon and back. And she believes He sent her Michael, the man who gave her two dozen roses and a promise, who gave her a ring that held the light of heaven, knowing even that light couldn’t compete with just one of Patricia’s smiles.
Follow Patricia on Facebook, at Prayers For Patricia Brown.
