Reba McEntire won the Country Music Association’s “best singer” award four times in a row following her breakthrough in the late 1970s and early 1980s. Naturally, she is also honored with a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.
However, Reba has also had her fair share of personal traumas, so life has not always been easy for her, even with her amazing profession and wealth.
Reba’s mother Jacqueline, at 93 years old, lost her fight with illness in 2022.
She was completely prepared to pass away and had lived a lovely, long, and healthy life. The country music performer posted on social media, “The cancer may believe it has won the fight, but we’re giving God all the credit for choosing the time for her to go home to Him.”
Jacqueline McEntire’s desire of becoming a professional country singer was always realized when she taught Reba to sing, fulfilling her dream via her daughter.
We all know how much she loved us, and she left knowing how much love she had.Reba remarked, “We have so many amazing memories, but we’re going to miss her.
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Reba is well aware of the suffering associated with loss and grief.
Thirty-two years ago on March 16, she lost her tour manager in a horrific plane crash after a concert, along with seven other band members.
I recall that 1991 day. I heard about the crash on the radio as I was heading to work. I felt my heart skip a beat, thinking that Reba was on the plane too.
She wasn’t, though.
After playing in San Diego on March 16, 1991, Reba and her band were on their way to Fort Wayne, Indiana, for their next tour stop.
At the airport in San Diego, two flights were waiting; Reba, her husband, and manager spent the night in San Diego, while the band members and tour manager traveled on ahead.
Ten miles east of the airport, the first aircraft tragically met its demise.
Reba has frequently honored her deceased friends throughout the years.
She opened out about the day her band broke up in an emotional 2012 interview with Oprah Winfrey.
“Everyone on board was killed when the airplane’s tip struck a rock on the side of Otay Mountain,” McEntire said to Winfrey.
“Our pilot was contacted, and Narvel, Reba’s manager, went to meet with him to inform us of what had occurred. When Narvel returned to my hotel room at two or three in the morning, he informed me that one of the planes had crashed. I said, “Are they okay?” In his words, “I don’t think so.” “But you’re not sure?” I asked. I don’t think so, he said.
Reba remembered the events of the disaster, tears welling up in her eyes.
“Narvel was calling from room to room while holding a phone,” she started, stopping when tears welled up in her eyes. “I apologize, but even after 20 years, it seems like it will never stop hurting,” she remarked. But that chamber is visible to me. Narvel is moving back and forth, as I can see.
It’s been 32 years since the crash. She recently recalled the terrible events of that day by sharing a picture of her band on Instagram.
She shared another homage to her friends in 2020.
“I lost my pals in a plane tragedy 29 years ago today. It seems fitting that Mama passed away on that anniversary,” she writes.
“I am aware that they are all together in Heaven, looking out for one another. Let’s continue to look out for one another while we’re still on this planet and never take a moment for granted to spend with our loved ones.
Soon after, Reba’s admirers rallied behind the country music icon.
Many folks sent prayers and good vibes.
“Reba I’ve always admired your music, our mutual love of horses, and now that I follow you on Instagram.May God bless you and your mother. A fan wrote.
Reba showed once more this year, in 2023, that she still grieves the terrible loss of her pals and that she will never forget them.
She posted a video of the group performing together along with the message, “Their love for music and the stage gives us all the strength to go on.”
I apologize, Reba. You are an amazing woman; stay strong. You make so many people happy that there is a reason God has preserved you on this planet. Keep grinning!
Buttons and Memories
I miss my mom. I used to push all the buttons just as she would walk down the aisle, a mischievous glint in my eye. Each time we visited the grocery store, I’d dash ahead, my small fingers dancing over the colorful buttons of the self-checkout machine. With each beep, she’d turn around, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “You little rascal! One day, you’re going to break it!” she’d say, shaking her head, but her smile would give her away. Those moments were filled with laughter and light, the kind of memories that could brighten even the dullest days.
Since her passing, the grocery store has become a hollow place for me. I walk through, the automatic doors sliding open with a soft whoosh, and I feel the weight of the emptiness settle in my chest. The shelves filled with brightly packaged goods seem to mock my solitude. I can still hear her voice, echoing in my mind, reminding me to pick up my favorite snacks or to try a new recipe. I wander through the aisles, my heart heavy, searching for a piece of her in every corner.
I remember how she would linger by the produce, inspecting the apples with care, always choosing the shiniest ones. “The best things in life are worth taking a moment to choose,” she would say, her hands gently brushing over the fruit. Now, I find myself standing there, staring at the apples, unable to choose. They all seem dull and lifeless without her touch.
The self-checkout machines are still there, their buttons waiting to be pressed, but they feel like a cruel reminder of what I’ve lost. I can’t bring myself to push them anymore. The last time I stood in front of one, the memories flooded back. I could almost hear her laughter, feel her presence beside me. But it was just a memory, fleeting and painful.
Every week, I return to the store, hoping that somehow it will feel different, that I’ll find a way to connect with her again. But the aisles remain unchanged, their fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like a persistent reminder of my loneliness. I see other families laughing and chatting, and I feel like an outsider looking in on a world that no longer includes me.
One evening, as I walked past the cereal aisle, I spotted a box of her favorite brand. It was decorated with bright colors and cheerful characters, a stark contrast to the heaviness in my heart. I hesitated for a moment, then reached out and grabbed it, a sudden rush of nostalgia washing over me. I could almost see her standing beside me, her eyes twinkling with excitement. “Let’s get it! We can make our special breakfast tomorrow!”
With the box cradled in my arms, I made my way to the checkout. I felt a warmth spreading through me, the kind of warmth that comes from cherished memories. But as I stood there, scanning the items and watching the screen flash numbers, I realized that I was alone. The laughter we shared, the spontaneous dance parties in the kitchen, all of it felt like a distant dream.
When I got home, I placed the box on the kitchen counter, a bittersweet smile tugging at my lips. I thought about making pancakes, just like we used to, the kitchen filled with the scent of vanilla and maple syrup. I reached for my phone to call her, to share the news, but my heart sank as reality set in. There would be no more calls, no more laughter echoing through the house.
That night, I sat in the dark, the box of cereal beside me, feeling the weight of my grief settle in. I poured myself a bowl, the sound of the cereal hitting the milk breaking the silence. As I took the first bite, tears streamed down my cheeks. Each crunch reminded me of the moments we had shared, and I felt an ache in my chest for the warmth of her presence.
“I miss you, Mom,” I whispered into the stillness of the room. “I wish I could press all the buttons just one more time, hear you laugh, feel your hand in mine.”
But the buttons would remain untouched, just as the aisles of the grocery store would remain silent, a reflection of the emptiness I felt inside. And in that moment, I realized that while the world continued to move forward, I would always carry her with me, a bittersweet reminder of the love that once filled my life.
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