Jeanne and I met when I was in the third grade. She was a relative of sorts. Our fathers were first cousins from the DeBone side of our Italian family. Domenic Prato had married Florence DeBone in 1909 and our fates were sealed.

I had been sent to live with my Aunt Liz so my parents could “figure things out.” Jeanne’s family lived around the block. She was a year older than me and went to Woodworth Elementary School and, under her mother’s orders, let me trail behind her and her friends until I trotted the last block in my plaid uniform to St. Clement. I followed her to Wednesday night Girls Scouts, too. Her a medallioned Scout, and me an entry-level Brownie.

Soon enough I moved again, to live with another relative and attend another school.

Then, seven years later, in much the same circumstances, I was back with Aunt Liz. This time it was my oldest brother, Phil, who booked a room for me in her East Dearborn bungalow. My father had died years before, and my mother, who struggled with alcohol, was on her way to stay with family in California. My dear aunt welcomed an ill-bred teenager who planted her elbows firmly on her dinette table and didn’t wash the dishes well. I wasn’t the only relative she had helped over the years, but I’m sure I tried her patience more than most. To me her name will always be synonymous with “Saint.”

My first day of 10th grade at Fordson High School, Jeanne was assigned the task of being my “buddy.” I wore my best pair of flood pants and a favorite, yet faded, cable knit top—tarnishing Jeanne’s fashionably long Peggy Lipton hair—and just belled-enough hip-hugger jeans.

Her mother had cautioned, “You don’t have to like her. But you do have to be nice to her.”

I’m not sure if the miracle was that Jeanne obeyed or that a friendship began.

When she finally towed me to Hudson’s Budget for new clothes, our friendship improved dramatically. We were together constantly, shared a similar sense of humor, and the same taste in boys. We’d cruise the neighborhood in her dark green Pinto, listening to The Beatles sing “Rocky Raccoon,” and check out the boys as they washed their cars.

And yes, the word, “Hunk” was tossed about generously.

Her blonde hair and green eyes were distinctly different than mine, which were both dark brown—yet classmates swore we looked alike. We’d laugh and point at the back of our earlobes declaring, “Yeah, right here.”

High School was fun. Jeanne was popular and polished—which helped educate me in “teenagery.” The Frats, Hippies, and Jocks all got along—even with the small group of Jesus Freaks who helped solidify my youthful commitment to Christ. It was the mid-70s, during the “Jesus Revolution” era when being Christian was acceptable, even cool. I shared the message of salvation and need for repentance with Jeanne, who shrugged it off as “covered” under her weekly church attendance.

Then, we made a deal. She’d go to church with me if I’d go to an after school Hines Park “grasser” with her. Yeah, I went, and your instincts are right—the word “grasser” wasn’t about the lawn. Jeanne reneged on her part of the deal.

I had been attending church with my stepsister Barb (from my mother’s second marriage) and her husband Al, who had met and married after accepting Christ, leading them to also accept me and offer much needed guidance—keeping me busy and well-loved. But later in my high school years church-going tarnished, when the “word-in-the-pew” was that my skirts were too short, and I hadn’t applied to a favored out-of-state Bible college—clearly backslidden. What was clear to me was that I couldn’t afford such an expense and that I’d have nowhere to return during school breaks. Instead, I played it safe and attended a college in my hometown. Henry Ford Community College was lovingly referred to as “Hank High.” It’d be years before I’d go to church again.

But the beauty of God’s grace is steadfast. And as He often does, He moves gently yet profoundly.

I had promised my dear Aunt that I’d move out shortly after High School. I found a rental and secured a job at popular health spa—eventually sharing my lower flat with an older, unwiser, co-worker. That’s when life changed dramatically. I worked hard, played hard, and partied harder, forsaking my pledge to “never, ever, drink” like my parents had. I went from bar to bar and boyfriend to boyfriend, all the while desperately trying to nullify the deep sorrow I had lived as a child and the intense anger that lingered. Then, I’d wrestle at night, haunted by the verse from Revelation 3:20.

“Behold, I stand at the door, and knock: if any man hears my voice, and opens the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me.”

I’d whisper, “Yes, I know I’m not living right, Lord, but I can’t come back right now. It’s just not convenient, it’s too complicated.” The clincher? “Let me get back to you.” We had short conversations like this for several years, while I explored the ways of the world.

Jeanne and I remained close, but we didn’t hang out as much. Beyond all comprehension—but not beyond God—Jeanne had been considering her own salvation, and one serendipitous day she walked across the street to speak to her neighbor who was a Christian. Jeanne asked her about Jesus, then joined her in a prayer of salvation. She became more than devout. Jeanne was on fire.

When I would call her in distress about heartache and breakups, which I often did, Jeanne counseled me lovingly, then ended each call with, “Jesus loves you, Jan.”

To this day, her response still plays as a soothing message in my mind.

As time went on, I succeeded as an automotive illustrator at AM General, where I ran into my Uncle Buck, an engineer whose family I had lived with in 4th grade. After our short reunion he asked, “Are you in the market to buy a house?” His son, my cousin Mark, was looking for a buyer, and I had been saving toward a downpayment. The deal was done, and life was good. I was so happy to have a home—especially one that was mine!

Then God finally had his say.

The “hell fire and brimstone” messages I had heard from the pulpit of the long-forgotten church roared back like a torrent. The tipping point was a full-page article on the back section of major newspapers titled in large bold type, “The Christ is Coming.” The drafting room was full of them that day, cigarette smoke rising from behind the upheld copies. I couldn’t avoid the pointed message and I knew I wasn’t ready for His return. My conversation with God in the dark of night changed dramatically.

I knew this was it. Now or never. Do or die.

The next day at work I dug a dime out of my wallet, found the nearest pay phone in the hallway and deposited it with a clink. “Jeanne, can I come to church with you this Sunday?” I knew if I didn’t repent, I was doomed to hell—with or without the hand basket.

I met Jeanne in the parking lot of her church, ironically located near the same park as the “grasser.” It was a huge church led by a rotund pastor with a booming voice and fiery preaching—and a sanctuary filled with vocal worshippers. After the service I walked quickly through the parking lot, tossed a good-bye to Jeanne and headed toward my car. As I grasped the door handle, I began to weep, squeaking the words, “Jeanne, I need to pray. I need God. I can’t leave this parking lot until I pray and ask for His forgiveness. Will you pray with me?”

When Jeanne prayed, I was only able to offer deep sobs of repentance, ending with “Forgive me, Lord. Amen.”

Jeanne became my lifeline. I went to Sunday service and the singles group with her each week, trying to train my words and calm my nerves so as not to offend anyone. But the young adult group was a unique collection of sinners turned saints in various stages of reformation. I was ready to shake off the worldly ways I had once welcomed. I said goodbye to my bar-hopping friends, walked away from a long-term on-again-off-again boyfriend, and refused the offer to smoke—cigarettes or otherwise.

Several months later, Jeanne caught the eye of a young man named David and they announced their engagement. She asked me to be her maid of honor—then said she believed I’d be married before their first anniversary. I doubted the proclamation. It was true, this time I wanted a husband, not another fly-by-night dalliance. I said so at a lunchtime prayer meeting at work one day, and the leader said he “knew someone.” A double date was set up with he and his wife—and God’s plan was in motion. I was a nervous wreck—and smitten. Chuck’s dark hair, blue eyes, and kind smile captured me. During our date we discovered we had given our lives to Christ on the same weekend, at the same church, one year prior. He had asked a close friend about Jesus, then followed him to church and hit the altar with both knees and many tears. My maid of honor spot was ready to be filled, and before Jeanne and David’s first anniversary Chuck and I were married, with two weeks to spare.

Jeanne has remained a steadfast believer, my confidant, and a delightful part of my otherwise troubling childhood.

It was so complicated and disruptive, it’s still difficult to answer a simple question, like “where did you go to school?” Even as I wrote this post, I had to stop and recount where I lived, with whom, and why. “Yes, in 4th grade I lived with my Aunt Ada and Uncle Buck with my Mom, until she broke the rules and drank again. Then halfway through that school year we moved to my Dad’s rental in Livonia. Then my dad died, and mom and I moved to a trailer in Plymouth…”

Twelve schools in thirteen years while bunking with various family members leaves your brain addled. I thank God deeply for all the good, sacrificing people who took in a ragamuffin like me. It was miraculous, yet the pain still lingers.

But Jeanne is my balm. She shares my story. From third grade until this day, she is my constant. We live states apart now, have for years, but there is a strong familial bond. Well into our adulthood our kinship deepens. We are both younger sisters to two older brothers, with parents and siblings who left this world much too soon. Yet we have each other.

I often considered Jeanne my older sister. Case in point: I graduated with a degree in organizational management for goodness sake—but she’s more organized than I am. I’ve had some great jobs, but ever since I was a Brownie chasing her Girl Scout tails, she’s excelled past anything I’d ever done. I tease her that when she’s around I can rest, because I know that she’ll do what I would have done, just quicker and I have to admit, better.

This used to irk me. But just recently I realized it is one of my greatest joys. Because God knew what I needed.

One of my greatest losses, not only for me but for our entire family, was the sudden death of my sister during our childhood years. She died during brain surgery to remove a tumor that caused her blindness when she was eleven years old. I was only seven. Our family was already on the brink. While drinking and fighting took its toll, my sister’s death ended my parent’s marriage abruptly through a separation that increased both their drinking. A brief reconciliation was ended by my dad’s sudden death.

I often wondered what my life would have been like if my older sister had lived. Would she have looked after me, been a respite in times of trouble, given me a bright light to follow during dark days? I wondered why God would let me dangle from a broken family where I was nine years younger than my nearest sibling, and left alone with an alcoholic mother after our father died and my two older brothers built their own lives?

Recently it struck me how amazing it is that I met Jeanne. As I said, she was family of sorts. It wasn’t common for the DeBones to gather with the Pratos. They had their own large Italian clans to enjoy. But in our instance, Jeanne DeBone and Jan Pratto, it became very common. And more than that, miraculous.

Jeanne filled the “big sister shoes” perfectly. I can go to her with anything and she’ll pray, advise, or laugh with me about it. We have scores of stories in our archives. Like in high school, when we measured the circumference of our thighs to see if we qualified as models. And reminiscing about all the concerts we saw at Olympia Stadium or Pine Knob—ranging from George Harrison, to David Bowie, to John Denver. And that we both owned Pintos, hers forest green and mine, lime.

On a recent trip Chuck and I took back to Michigan, we visited the Holy Sepulcher Cemetery where my parents and sister are buried. I mentioned to Chuck that I wish I had known my sister better and wondered what life would’ve been like if she hadn’t died.

Then it hit me. I know.

She’d have helped me with my wardrobe, given me advice when needed (and not needed). She would have counseled me about life—and boys, and always stay one step ahead of me to retain her prowess.

Just like Jeanne.

But it wasn’t until I was at the cemetery on our last trip to Michigan that it hit me. After decades of time with Jeanne and missing my sister during flared melancholy—something stood out to me for the first time.

In tribute to my parents and sister, I kiss my palm and draw my hand across their headstones to gently caress their names. When I touched my sister’s, Jeanine Marie Pratto, I recognized the similarity of their names.

Jeanine and Jeanne.

Even though Jeanine had passed decades ago, it was God’s time to show me His intimate lovingkindness. Jeanne was His answer for a young girl who needed a place in someone’s heart to belong, a sister-cousin, and a laugh now and then.

The Lord knows what you need when you need it, and He has a unique, sometimes clever way, to show you He will never leave you or forsake you.

If your hope is running out, hold on, and remember this: The beauty of God’s grace is steadfast. And as He often does, He moves gently yet profoundly.

“He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end.” Ecclesiastes 3:11 (NIV)

________

Note: The surnames Prato and Pratto are both used in this post because an additional “t” was added to my father’s last name when he enlisted by draft in the United States Army during WWII. The government-installed typo started a new rendition of our family tree.

________

Read more miraculous stories of God’s intervention that invite you to hope without limits on Jan’s Blog.
Please leave a comment! I’d love to know that you stopped by!