SOME TIME AGO, I READ the story of a guy who was fanning through the family photo album. As he looked at memories of relatives who, quite frankly he’d forgotten about, he came across a photo of his dad and Muhammad Ali. “I didn’t know you met Muhammad Ali,” he told his father. His dad didn’t talk much about his life, but this was one of those moments he was shocked was never shared with him. “Yeah, I think that was back in ’77. You met him, too.” 

“When?” he asked his father.

“That’s you right next to me.”

He looked just to his father’s right hand side and there he was, a young boy of about 7 or 8. He stared for a second and then the realization hit him – he’d met arguably the greatest heavyweight boxer of all time and didn’t remember it. He couldn’t recall the feelings he experienced as a child, but wow…he’d met Muhammad Ali. What an honor!

I met Jennifer shortly before we knew she had ALS. She was vibrant, full of energy, and she commanded respect. I’d heard of all of her accolades, from choreographing dances for Miss Virginia, to sending students out into the professional world to dance for So You Think You Can Dance and cheerlead for the NFL. Most dance studios gladly take a parent’s hard earned money only to churn out substandard dancers. But Jennifer gave many of them the courage to pursue a career in the world of dance. In a world where women are routinely viewed as subservient to men, she’d have none of that in her classes. She expected them to be strong, bold, and fearless.

I didn’t have the pleasure to meet Jennifer at the height of her dance career. As I said, I met her just a few months before we realized there was something wrong. We listened as doctors pussyfooted around telling her that she had ALS, and when they finally had the courage to tell her, she accepted the challenge that would eventually consume her. First her arms and legs, and then her ability to eat, talk, and even sit. The disease was slow, and brought her, and her family to a breaking point on many occasions. If there is a merciful god, I’d love an explanation for this, and not the bullshit, watered-down talking points that the religious crowd loves to vomit. There’s absolutely no excuse for this. None. No reason. No lesson. And no “testimony” of her life that will lead people to Christ. 

When I met Jennifer, to me, she was just Lynanne’s mom. I had no idea of her professional history. Just a few months before the disease rendered her a complete invalid, she was able to lead one last dance recital. I’ve seen these things before, but good god, I was not prepared for the magnitude of what I saw, and because of COVID, it was “tame” from what others told me. This woman, from a wheelchair, choreographed some of the most amazing dances, and as these girls took the stage, she yelled, shouted, and cheered them on. Even though I’d heard about all of the things she accomplished, it was in this moment that I realized, like that man fanning through the family album, that I was in the presence of someone who was truly a great human being. 

There are people who folks say, “they say whatever is on their mind.” But in reality, if you listen to them long enough, they have a filter in there somewhere. Not Jennifer. Sometimes, I think she said things before her mind processed it, and well…whatever she said, she said, and however it came out is how it came out. And that was Jennifer in a nutshell. She spoke her mind, made her own way in life, and even as the disease finally took away her ability to speak, she had a sense of humor all the way to the end, did her best to crack a joke, and would mumble that she loved me.

At the final recital, I watched through tears as she was helped to her feet by women who she’d taught as children, and take one final bow to an audience who adored and loved her. She was taken way too early in life…way too early, and her greatness will never truly be known.

I will miss her. But I am thankful that, even though I met her late in her life, I got to share a few special, magical moments in her presence. 

Dance on Jennifer.