For some reason, my mother was a fan of Elvis Pressley. I never quite understood why. When Elvis broke through in 1956 with “Heartbreak Hotel,” my mother had just turned thirty, had been married for ten years, and had two children. She was hardly a teeny-booper. But something about Elvis captured her, and she became a fan. 

Fast forward to 1972. I was twelve. Elvis was coming to play Bayfront Center in St. Petersburg. In those days before Ticketmaster and Stubhub, the only way to get a ticket was to go to the box office. It was decided that I would go stand in line at the Bayfront and get the tickets for my mother and stepfather, plus a few extra. 

My stepfather managed the Kress store in downtown St. Petersburg, so I rose at six on Saturday morning and went down to the store with him. I got scrambled eggs, grits, bacon, and toast at the lunch counter (I think it was the sixty-nine-cent breakfast special). Then my stepfather put the enormous sum of $120 dollars in my hand with instructions to walk the five blocks down to the Bayfront Center, get the tickets, and come back. I would not dream of turning a twelve-year-old lose with $120 in downtown St. Petersburg today, but it was a different world back then. 

I walked down to the Bayfront Center, turned the corner, and was shocked. The line stretched across the Bayfront parking lot, turned the corner, and stretched up the street. I am sure my memory now exaggerates, but it seemed a half-mile long. I found the end of the line and took my place. 

You’ve heard of a snail’s pace? This line moved at the pace of a snail with a handicap sticker. Though only twelve, I was tall for my age. Conversation soon broke out among those near me in line.  One woman asked me if I was in college. She thought I was lying when I told her I was in middle school. I found out the names of my fellow snails and the names of their spouses, kids, parents, and third cousins. We discussed sports, local TV stations, books, and churches. After two hours had passed, we had progressed halfway to the ticket booth. A long line stretched behind us, and we had run out of conversation topics. In this age, before smartphones, we were on our own.   

Several people asked me to hold their place in line and then would disappear behind a line of bushes. I didn’t understand then; I do now. No one thought to bring any water; none of us had anticipated such a long line. 

By the third hour, we reached the shadow of the Bayfront Center, which provided blessed relief from the beating Florida sun. I was hallucinating a small bottle of ice-cold Coke. At the top of the fourth hour, we made it to the air-conditioned lobby where the ticket booth was located. That was my first inkling of what heaven might be like, a blessed relief from the heat of this world.   

It was finally my turn to approach one of the two cashiers (management was a little out of touch). I plunked down the money, asked for tickets, and was rewarded with eight precious seats. I was not asked where I wanted to sit; I accepted what was given. 

The five blocks back to the store was much longer than it had been that morning. I passed three or four Coke machines, but I didn’t even have a quarter. All my money had gone to the tickets. When I got back to the Kress store, I found my stepfather, who said, “Where have you been?”  I explained what I found and my waiting in-line experience; his face of disapproval melted into concern. “You mean you waited in that line for four and a half hours?”  “Yes, sir. That’s what you told me to do.”  “I thought you were goofing off somewhere downtown.”   

Out of guilt, I suppose, he splurged on my lunch: Fried chicken, mashed potatoes, coleslaw, and, to top it off, a root beer float. It cost him fifty cents more than the usual hamburger and fries I was allowed.   

The newspaper the next day published pictures of the long ticket line. It turned out that about thirty minutes after I got the tickets, they sold out. For a glorious day, I was a hero to Mama. 

When the time for the concert came a few months later, Mama begged me to go. She felt guilt, I think, that I stood in line and wasn’t going to enjoy the show. I don’t recall if I thanked her, but I told her I didn’t want to go anywhere near the Bayfront Center for a while. It was stupid, of course; I missed my one chance to see Elvis in concert. 

Five years later, I was coming home from my summer job for lunch when I heard the news that Elvis had died. I went into the house to tell Mama the news; to my great surprise, she broke down in tears. To this point, I had seen my mother cry twice in my life. I did not know what to do or say; I awkwardly patted her on the back. After a minute, she pulled herself together, got up, and set my lunch down for me. Then she went off to her bedroom. 

I never knew why Mama cried for Elvis or what those songs meant to her. It did not take a counselor to understand Elvis touched some part of Mama’s soul. 

I had not thought about this in decades until this week when I found myself in Tupelo, Mississippi, the birthplace of Elvis. I had a few minutes to spare before leaving town, so I found the birthplace of Elvis. There is a museum, a small park, and the house, a small three-room frame building. I was tempted to get out and take a closer look. But I had a plane to catch and work to do, so I just stopped on the side of the road. I took a picture, thought about Mama, and then drove off—another missed opportunity. 

I wonder how many of God’s opportunities I miss because I’m turned off by something silly, or I’m tired, or I’m in a hurry. Like Elvis, those opportunities might only come once. Don’t let them pass.