By: Leslie Mendoza
Although I often find myself resisting the notion, there are times when Hollywood truly captures real-life stories.
My life feels like it could be a film script. That’s not just my opinion; at least one friend concurs. Nine years ago, I sat with my old high school theater buddy, Mark, and shared my tale over lunch. We had made a pact to trade our saddest stories, with the loser picking up the bill.
I began with my romance—a young woman from Boston falls for a charming soldier in Oklahoma’s bomb squad. After countless phone calls, some failed relationships, and several deployments, they eventually marry and have three children in quick succession.
“Alright,” Mark said, “that’s definitely Hallmark material.”
“Just wait,” I replied, teasingly.
In the sequel, they navigate the soldier’s college life while their eldest battles cancer and ultimately triumphs. The soldier returns to service and gets accepted into a prestigious military medical program.
“Okay, maybe it could be a Lifetime movie,” Mark admitted, but he warned me I’d be paying for lunch.
“Hold on,” I said, preparing to elevate my story’s stakes. But as it turned out, I went too far. My marriage began to unravel as my husband struggled with emotional turmoil and suicidal thoughts, possibly stemming from his bomb squad experiences. Then, just five months after I had distanced myself from our marriage for the sake of my children and my own well-being, my husband—my once-funny, sweet soulmate—took his own life at the very hospital where he had been a respected OB/GYN resident.
“I can’t believe it,” Mark said, his voice cracking. Despite his disbelief, his eyes glistened as he reached for the check.
“No one will buy this script,” he insisted. “It’s just too unbelievable.” He suggested that I tone down the drama. Maybe lose the childhood cancer angle or have the soldier survive. Without a redemption arc, my story wouldn’t sell—not without a happy ending.
Our lunch concluded with a heartfelt hug and a promise to meet again.
I knew Mark was right; I loathed the ending of my story. It was nothing like the fairy-tale conclusions I had always envisioned. My faith wavered that a miracle could provide the narrative resolution we desperately needed.
In the years following my husband’s death, I attempted to craft a narrative that resembled a low-budget survival flick mixed with an indie horror film. I aimed for “hopeful,” but most of what I imagined felt “pathetic” instead.
The turning point came two Christmases later when I first encountered Gary Sinclair. Our family was invited to a charity event in Dallas called Snowball Express, where Gary was performing a live concert for 1,000 children of fallen servicemen and women with his band. By that time, I had been through countless unsuccessful dates, relocated my kids for a fresh start, and was resigned to a life of solitude. Many around us seemed to have moved on, but my children and I were still deep in our grief.
“We won’t forget you. We love you,” Gary assured me. Whether it was his tone, the warmth in his gaze, or the embrace he shared, it felt genuine, and I believed him.
Seven years later, while some have forgotten their promises to remember us, Gary Sinclair and his foundation have never stopped showing up. The Gary Sinclair Foundation hosts the annual Snowball Express event right before Christmas, providing a wave of love and new memories at a time when our hearts feel most fragile.
A few years back, the foundation transitioned the event from Dallas to Walt Disney World. For the past two Decembers, my kids and I have enjoyed a fully paid vacation there, surrounded by love and the company of families like ours. My children both look forward to and pretend to be astonished that Gary greets them at the airport every year—by name.
Then 2020 came along, and a reunion at Disney seemed increasingly unlikely. Eventually, we learned that the Snowball Express event would be virtual this year. We had anticipated this outcome, yet it still left us heartbroken.
Weeks later, we received an invitation to register for a virtual experience. My 18, 16, and 14-year-olds scrunched their faces at the thought of “virtually riding roller coasters” or “hanging out in a teen lounge.” It wouldn’t be the same, but we signed up.
A few days before the event, I received a call from the Gary Sinclair Foundation inquiring if a film crew could visit our home to document our virtual experience. Though we were hesitant about allowing strangers into our home, it was hard to say no to “Uncle Gary” and his dedicated team. We tidied up and prepared for the unexpected.
Turns out, love can manifest online just as powerfully as it does in person. Less than an hour into the filming, my kids were making pancakes while a camera captured it all without missing a beat. They teased each other, reminiscing about their dad, and one of them whipped up the “Dad-cakes” he used to make.
From a distance, I recognized the beauty of our story’s redemption. It wasn’t about my new relationship or our recent home purchase. Instead, my love story is centered on my children.
Somewhere between grief and pancake-making, they have blossomed into individuals eager to spread love as it has been showered upon us. They aspire to be like their father and like Gary Sinclair.
Despite Hollywood’s often selfish reputation, for us, it has become a platform for selfless service. Year after year, celebrities and volunteers demonstrate that the most fulfilling path in life is one of helping others, serving, and inspiring.
While we missed the in-person magic of Disney this year, we discovered a new ending to our “saddest story.” Our narrative may not fit neatly into the conventions of Lifetime or Hallmark. Instead, it has evolved into a tale that Hollywood would be eager to tell—one where adversity strengthens us, where unexpected kindness reveals our best selves, and where the conclusion suggests that our journey is just beginning.
In moments where all the right elements converge to create a narrative bigger than any individual, Hollywood can indeed capture a story worth telling—one of love, loss, and redemption. Sometimes, they get it exactly right.
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Summary:
The author shares her poignant journey of loss and resilience, highlighting how Gary Sinclair and his foundation have provided unwavering support to her family during the holidays. Through the Snowball Express event, they receive love and community, transforming their grief into hope and purpose, ultimately redefining their story into one of strength and new beginnings.