The first rays of sunlight edge up over the horizon at 5am in Colorado. By 5:30am there are five of us sitting out on the back patio drinking five different mixtures of coffee and stretching the sleep out of our eyelids.

I am in shorts, a long-sleeved T, and barefoot. This is how I porch sit in the mornings. But here in Colorado it is 58 degrees with a slight breeze rolling across the prairie, pushing up against the front range. I excuse myself to go back inside and pull on a sweatshirt over my T. The feet will just have to be cool.

Marion and I are in Canon City, Colorado to visit with the Cruzen family. Their sister Gail, who was more like the matriarch of the family, passed away quite a few weeks ago. The memorial service is today at 10:30am.

The conversation around the coffee cups on the back patio has a sharp edge to it. No one has heard from the caterer this week.

“This is not like her.”

“I know, but what are we gonna do. We have 40 to 50 people to feed today.”

“I texted her on Monday.”

“And I’ve left three messages on her phone.”

“Maybe we could leave a message on her Facebook page?”

“I’ve already done that.”

“Well, what are we going to do?”

This debate is mainly between two sisters. They are problem solvers. They are fixers. They will sort out a catastrophe like the NTSB agents sniff out a train wreck. They devise plans and they clean up the mess.

If you don’t already know this, Marion is of the same genetic makeup. She is wired to analyze and create strategies that turn chaos into calm, especially when it comes to feeding people. I honestly believe that the entire kitchen could burn to the ground two hours before the Thanksgiving meal, and she would still figure out how to feed 30 people by one o’clock.

The three of them together are fun to watch. Shawn and I are useless males in this situation. We have no suggestions to offer. We know nothing about how to prepare for Armageddon, should the caterer not come through. We are silently sipping coffee off to the side of this fray, cutting our eyes back and forth at each other, watching the sun come up over the trees, and too scared to get involved.

So, a plan is made. The caterer cannot be trusted to come through. She might, but what if she doesn’t. All those hungry guests would be embarrassing.

“I just couldn’t be responsible for that.”

Our coffee session ended early. At least theirs did. By 7am the three amigas were headed out the front door to see what they could come up with at the grocery store. The two males were left to forage for nuts and berries. No one cared if they ate. The “fixers” were focused on lunch.

The Bell Tower in downtown Florence, Colorado used to be a church building. Now it’s a local theater and center for the arts. It’s also an event facility that can be rented. It still has the feel and look of an old church inside and out. Slanted floor. Pews. A small stage up front.

Shawn is there by 9am to set up his piano and get the sound check done. His brother is playing with him. They are running through a song that has become a staple of faith and hope for times like this. Shawn sang this same one at my dad’s funeral 13 years ago. It was played at Beth’s funeral. Today, we’ll remember Gail’s faith and hope through these lyrics again.

I catch Shawn’s eyes and give him a winky nod. He understands.

The ladies show up a little before 10am with loads of food. There are metric tons of macaroni salad and potato salad. The veggie tray is homemade, which means they took the time to wash, cut and slice, carefully choosing the right mix of color patterns, alternating bell peppers and carrots with celery sticks and grapes. This tray is what “fixing this” looks like. Bags of rolls are spread out on the table.

The one hitch in this plan is the fried chicken. Right now, there’s a young man back in Canon City with a kitchen net over his beard franticly frying 100 pieces of chicken behind the deli counter at Safeway. It won’t be ready until 11am, which is in the middle of the memorial service.

Every now and then, you come up against an opportunity that only makes sense if you believe Someone Else put all the pieces together. I won’t dig into all the details with you. I’ll only remind you, if you read Part A of this episode, that we, not of our choosing, rented a compact cargo van for this trip.

Small cargo vans look strangely similar to the kind of vehicle a caterer might use. Wide doors. Plenty of room for food trays and boxes. Rubberized floor in case there’s any spills. So, Marion and I missed the service to make sure the chicken arrived on time.

When we got back to The Bell Tower at 11:30, the real caterer had shown up with chafing dishes full of warm food, bowls of wonderful salad, and trays of delicious desserts. The table was clear of any evidence that an alternate plan had been initiated.

I’m standing beside the service table with boxes of hot chicken in my hands wondering how this all went down. I’m guessing it wasn’t pretty.

But that part of the story doesn’t matter.

What matters is that Gail’s life was celebrated. Family and friends ate together and stayed around for a long time. Warm embraces and good stories filled the room.

It’s funny how distracted we can get over things that, in the end, work out. The situation with the caterer wasn’t perfect. But you make the best of it. Besides, the local Fire Station got a surprise supper of fried chicken with tater salad and rolls with tea and lemonade.

It was later in the weekend that we all began to relax and really remember Gail. We ate Mexican one night because Gail loved Mexican, and also because we were tired of fried chicken. We sat around the kitchen table and played Farkle, a crazy fun game of dice, because Gail loved the competition.

The family dynamics are a little crazy. Steps and Halves and borrowed siblings from another marriage back down the line. Since “mom” passed away, Gail had been the glue that held everyone together. She knew what everyone was doing in 14 different states. She never lost contact with anybody.

She is missed already.

See, it doesn’t matter what kind of vehicle you rent or drive. It doesn’t matter whether you eat hot lasagna or cold veggies. It’s not important as to why things went crazy and who might be the one to blame. There’s enough of that in life as it is.

What matters is family.

Although Marion and I are not physically a part of this family, we feel like it today. We are sharing a picnic lunch with them. We are sharing these marvelous mountains.

And, I have a piece of cold fried chicken in my hands.