Austin Lavicka Luehring

You were a blessing from God, born April 13, 1997- a healthy/beautiful 7 lb 7 oz 20" baby who grew up to be a strong/handsome, God fearing 6' man. You were in this world for 27 years but my heart/the hearts of all who knew you cries out for more time. Your dad and I were married several years when you completed our family with many beautiful memories/countless gatherings in our home/backyard. You were happy/smiling/curious/loving/joyful/witty/singing with perfect pitch.

When you were five years old all you wanted for Christmas was a reindeer and of course I had to try to make that happen. It did. Christmas Eve you opened your presents and sure enough, there was one package that had a note from "Santa" that gave directions to the Cavanaugh Farm (where I had arranged us to meet on Christmas Eve). After meeting "Rowdy" (tame, as he had been raised like a baby in the house until he got his antlers) you were beaming (pictures to prove it). However, you being "you" had a special request. Suddenly you said, "But... I wanted a 'talking' reindeer." With witnesses nearby, Rowdy started making these incredible "reindeer" sounds; it was all very animated/surreal. We adults just shook our heads in wonder; but you didn't act surprised at all, responding, "Well, I got my talking reindeer," and asked if your friends could meet Rowdy; they did, when we had your birthday party there. Whenever I tell your and Rowdy's story, my students can hardly believe it until I show them the Christmas Eve picture of you; I do my best "reindeer" sounds as their eyes get wide and they start asking all kinds of questions about you and Rowdy. Now telling that story is one of the most difficult things imaginable; but I do it, for the children.

You were six years old when your dad and I parted ways and I was blessed to be the one who took care of you almost every day. We read books/played instruments/made up songs/harmonized/volunteered/went to church/cooked/went on countless adventures/laughed heartily (our sense of humor keyed in the same pitch) and had a unique way of recognizing/dealing with some of life's hard knocks while never feeling sorry for ourselves.

When you were almost 21 (with a great job/college credits in your corner) you tried living at a different place (seeing if the grass was greener, elsewhere) and came back one day, letting me know you were sorry for moving away so hastily/that where you were living was much worse than following a few "tough mom/house rules." You said it was a great learning experience to figure out (on your own) some people (even family) can put on a good show but eventually show their true colors. Yet you always forgave everyone who hurt you. That painful experience (for both of us) made our bond even stronger. Eventually you moved out to live in different apartments/homes (each one professionally remodeled by you) but we were always only a few cities away from each other. I was your first point of contact if you ever needed help (your friends can attest you certainly didn't lead a boring life and sometimes needed your mom for support/advice/getting nursed back to health) and continued to see each other or speak almost every day - even until the day you were called to Heaven.

As you grew up, I encouraged you to be curious and sometimes you made me (and your friends) nervous climbing to the very top of our backyard tree. Hence, I came up with something I made you say every time you climbed that tree: "It's better to get scratched than fall." You knew that if you were falling to just hang on - to anything. Several years later you were retrieving your drone (you have some of the best pictures and stories with your aviation shenanigans) from a tree and sent pictures of your scratched up body/face. You made it clear my advice was sound because you were "okay/no ER visit." Now I have this feeling of falling, every day, and hang onto anything I can (every voice mail from you, every video, every card, every friend sharing stories).

At a very young age you learned how to serve others (we volunteered to help during holidays at local shelters) and that seemed to come to you naturally. You were nine years old when you came home with a friend to say you had bought lemonade from a large family who lived nearby. When I asked you how much it was, you said, “Five dollars,” followed by, “Mom, it was only fifty cents but they seemed they could use the five dollars more than I could.” That was your entire allowance but you had your priorities in the right place, even then. You had a God-given gift to connect with people with a true servant’s heart. Sometimes I would step back and smile as someone would gently take your hands and look you in the eyes, telling their story. Every job you had you never mentioned money, only how many people you had helped. From your caretaking with the young and old to technology and remodeling homes, you were always about "who" you were helping.

At times your heart seemed too big for your 6' (according to the yearly marks on our basement door frame that are still there). Every person and all God’s creatures were in some way blessed to have been in your presence. Even when you had very few material goods to give, you made sure those around you did not go without. From a helpless baby mouse (that you gave TLC for two years before releasing it at a lovely wooded area) to baby kittens (who had fallen between tall stacks of hay bales and only survived because of your perseverance) to friends who needed a place to stay, you had the heart, hands and tenacity of a dedicated “doctor without borders.” Your "pups" (Mira) misses you. You had rescued that beautiful Belgium Malinois after she delivered 13 puppies and no one wanted her. I remember the day you brought her home. You said you had only been "looking" at the shelter but the second you two locked eyes, you both "knew" and from that moment forward you two were bonded, going on endless walks/runs/adventures as you trained her, doing your best to maximize her intelligence/curiosity. You said you couldn't wait to be a dad (and you would have been the best). I was looking forward to being a grandma; your sweet baby clothes and favorite toys/books are all set aside for something that will never happen. It isn't fair.

I taught you how to ride my motorcycle in the Thrivent parking lot; ironically, a short time later you would find yourself working there in the IT department, helping figure out complex problems. Even the CEO of Thrivent recognized your contributions and sent you a letter (which you shared with me). Later she wrote me a beautiful letter acknowledging unforgettable you and expressed her condolences. Prior to that I taught you how to drive my manual transmission vehicle and you drove us all the way back from North Dakota. You were a new driver but I knew I could fall asleep and trust you (just as I did on our most recent 2024 epic road trip to Naples and Nashville).

You were grateful for everything and never took a kind act or gift from someone for granted. From toys, housewares, vacations, bikes and cars, concerts (Paul McCartney was epic) to the ulitmate Milwaukee tool set and loans (like many parents I did not demand repayment in a timely manner, rather encouraged you to save up for rainy days), your smile and warm hugs let me know you didn't "expect" this from your mom. It was always the plan you would one day take care of me. I would jokingly say, "Yep, my son is my retirement package." But joking aside, you did plan on building a "mother-in-law" suite onto your home, someday, when I was no longer able to take care of myself. I knew I would never be alone when I got old because you, my son, wouldn't allow it.

The moment you were able to make cooing sounds I knew God had blessed you with an angelic gift. Your beautiful high tenor voice could melt the hardest heart and bring us to tears. Music and singing gave you great joy. I watched you perform with the Appleton Boys’ Choir and later in the men’s choir in high school. Up until your passing you were sharing your God given voice and song writing abilities as you strummed your beautiful six string. Your friends loved singing karaoke with you and we had plans for you to cut your first c.d. with a combination of your originals and mine (which you had memorized and sang much better than me). Sometimes you would sit at the piano and play everything from Pachelbel's canon to recent radio pop hits, all things you would watch on line and memorize. But it was when you played your guitar and sang that everyone agreed - a slice of heaven, always.

On November 5 of 2024 (after leaving work, having helped people all day and then staying a few extra minutes to help a resident get his electronics fixed) a wrong way driver on the highway gave you no chance to defend yourself. You took your last breath on earth just as you were passing our church; your beautiful young healthy life was instantly cut short. Days after the crash I went to your mangled up BMW and pulled out your beautiful guitar with busted strings/neck completely broken, never to be played again. Crumbling to the ground I held the instrument you had just played so beautiufully and sobbed a gutteral sob only a mother who has just lost her only child can, listening to one of your recorded songs as officers and counselors stood by with tears/reverence for a mom and her son (whose lives had been intertwined for decades yet were "just beginning" in many ways).

I’m now coming across cassette tapes of your little precious voice from when we were in the kitchen making cookies or pancakes (or concocting some fort or experiment with fresh snow and food coloring). You never knew how many times I turned on the tape recorder (because you always sounded like an angel speaking or singing and I knew, someday, your own children would love to have this). Before your voice changed you could match Sara Brightman note for note. The video recorder (and later, phone), was almost always held to the side (so you knew I was watching with my eyes on you, versus a screen). Recently Luke (one of our "kid at heart always" friends) found the video of you (as a two-year-old) laughing, uncontrollably, as you pushed a toy toaster oven button up and down, over and over. Your infectious laugh, I hear it - I miss it. I miss everything. I miss "living" in a world without you. It's unbearable.

While growing up we rarely had our TV on and sometimes you mentioned how other kids got to play video games (some violent in nature). You were raised with minimal electronics, save for occasional family movies or limited time with interactive learning DVDs/games (which we literally played together with your hand on one part of the control and mine on the other). Several years ago (in one your many homemade cards/letters to me) you made it clear I could be tough on you; you followed that with, “But thank you, Mom. I like how I turned out.” Me, too. I love and respect the man you became. You had plans to raise your children (my future grandbabies) just like you were raised, "Like a kid in the early 40's."

Every day I hear from different people sharing how you helped them through some crisis or had faith in them when no one else did. Old friends and new friends (people you knew who have reached out to me to share in our grief) convey how proud I must be of the loving son I raised. I am. You would be proud of your friends coming over and sharing pictures, stories, hugs, tears, laughter and the fact that they will always be in my life and carry on your legacy with me. Your friends tell me that you’re the one who first taught them how to give a “real” hug and now, my precious son, they can give me those hugs when I need them most. The gifts you lavished on so many are now returning to bless and comfort me at this most unimaginable time. Everyone tells me that despite your God given looks and talents you never had an ego, included everyone/made everyone feel loved and welcomed. In your 27 years you have left a legacy most people could only aspire to. You had no enemies. Only admirers. Everyone loved you, my son.

Recently, a friend of yours said she had asked you (just before your passing) how we could have gone all the way down to Naples, Florida and back in a van. She said you told her, “Sometimes we buck heads, but at the end of the day, she (my mom) is my best friend.” You were my best friend, too. And that’s why this pain is so deep/unimaginable. We looked forward to playing those old video games every Christmas. And every year you were going to sit right here on the kitchen chair with your guitar and sing, “I’ll be home for Christmas.” Now, the rest of my life, I’ll have only videos to watch you sing this or the “Christmas Hallelujah” song. Holidays, your birthday, Mother's Day (every day, actually) will never be the same. Your smile and heart (and humor) are unmatched on this earth. You are my sunshine (a song we would often sing/harmonize to). I don't know how to live without being a mom to the best son God could have given me. I don't know how to live, without my only child who became my best friend and literally made this world a better place to be.

We went on several road/airplane trips: Grand Canyon, Washington DC, West Virginia, Arkansas, Chicago, Minnesota, North Dakota, Michigan, several trips to Florida and California beaches, Fallingwater in PA (which was closed yet we somehow managed to give ourselves a unique personal tour of all we could) and countless trips to visit friends all over Wisconsin. We used to write reviews for all the shows that came to our PAC (one time even having cast members from the Lion King to our home). We did a lot of cooking, game/music nights and would meet up all over the country with friends. I would love to mention every single person but that would be an endless list. From Grandma Betty/Grandpa Larry, Tammy and family, Luke, Rick and people who became "family" to friends who miss you beyond measure/are always only a phone call away/promise I will never feel alone. I always knew all these beautiful souls would take care of you if something were to happen to me. Now they take care of me the very best they can, promising to keep your memories alive and allowing me to be "me" on this heart wrenching new journey for us all.

You were the kid in school who sometimes got bullied (later, I told you to handle bullies with your voice and educated words) but you also had the most incredible friends who understood you and never turned you in for the shenanigans you were capable of from time to time (oh the joy of being friends with the fun, sometimes mischievous, loving Austin). One day it was discovered that it was my son who been electronically disabling the smart board (some app you figured out on your phone) in class, just because you got bored. When you were in middle school, people in our community (some with high-profile jobs) trusted you to help repair their computers. You were just happy to help (but also always looking for ways to have extra money for purchasing more electronics - a win situation for all). Well after graduation you began sharing stories of some of your shenanigans and I questioned you as to why the school never let me know about these extracurricular “activities.” You matter-of-factly told me how you were able to set up my cell phone to not accept calls from the school and able to reroute those calls to one of your good friends who would assume my identity and assure the school principal, “Austin will not go unpunished.” Stinker! But I am grateful you didn’t lead a boring life, and your intentions were always to help or just see how far you could go with mischief/make a memory with those you loved. In your later high school years and post high school you grew taller/more and more handsome. Former bullies started looking up to you, figuratively and literally. Everything you went through made you into the person everyone wanted to spend time with. Sometimes your generous spirit led you to spread yourself too thin. Yet anyone you were with, you made them feel they were the only person in the world you were helping.

January of 2024 your grandpa Lavicka (Norbert A. Lavicka), my dad, unexpectedly passed away. Within minutes you were here, holding me/comforting me. We spent the next four months planning a large/very detailed celebration of life for a beautiful man we loved dearly. Some of your favorite memories with Grandpa were going to Menominee Park, playing "Carrom," showing him the "Mrs. Butterworth" lamp you made for me, and playing your guitar/singing classic "Simon and Garfunkel" as he sang along and tapped his foot. One time you were so overcome with loving emotion you could barely finish the song. But of the countless memories, your favorite was when we three attended the local Carpenter's Union meeting where Grandpa was recognized for his loyalty to the union/years of service. My dad couldn't have been prouder to have his grandson (you, on your way to becoming a proficient carpenter) there. Later, you two sat at the large bar area and shared a drink, sharing stories like old high school buddies. We had a memory bench put up on the lake, not too far from where Grandpa lived. The first day it was up, we visited, twice. The first time, you made sure to clear every branch in the way of the perfect view of the lake. On our second visit we met new friends who said that this area had always been their favorite fishing spot and they were thankful to have a bench to rest their poles/sit down. I captured a picture of you having one of Grandpa's last bottles of root beer at his new bench, overlooking the sunset. And now, my one and only son, on that same bench (under my dad's memory plaque) is a plaque with your name and accomplishments. You and I planned on fishing there, having picnics/sharing memories with all three of us. Now I sit on that bench in your and my dad's honor - gazing at the sunset across the lake, tears streaming down my face thinking of everything that has been lost. You were only 27, Honey. Your whole beautiful life ahead of you.

"Austin's Gathering," (in your honor) was in August of 2025 at the beautiful EAA Air Academy Lodge not too far from where we last volunteered together at the Oshkosh Air Show in 2024. An engraved stone bench (with our names) now sits in the exact spot (just a few feet south of the famous "brown arch" where you and I watched our last air show together). In addition your name is now on the EAA Memorial Wall. A full dedication, (including a "missing man formation" flyover and bagpipes) happened on the last day of AirVenture 2025. There was not one dry eye as your name, the youngest new inductee on that wall, was spoken aloud. After a few "Young Eagles" flights you had learned to fly airplanes (and drones). Now you soar, forever young.

Several days before you passed you asked me to come to your work at the assisted memory care facility because the residents you were caring for wanted to meet me and hear you sing. I was running a few minutes behind, so you called to make sure I was okay and on my way. When I arrived, I called and you came out to greet me. Instead of making me feel bad I was a little late you said, “It’s okay, Mom, I had started ‘Dust in the Wind’ and wasn’t happy with the intro.; so your phone call interrupted me and I can go in and start it over.” As always you made me feel everything was okay and we shared a hug/smile. I walked in and was blessed to meet many of the beautiful people you were taking care of (along with a few of your fellow employees). Finally, sitting down next to you I was about to get out my phone and record you (as I always did) but "something" told me not to record, rather just take in your beautiful voice and face. Every once in a while, I glanced around the large room, tearing up. Everyone was smiling and nodding their head/tapping their foot or singing along. At the end of that night you asked me to sing with you and because I was so absorbed watching the special way you were interacting with the residents, I had tears in my eyes/felt I couldn’t. You kept encouraging me to sing with you and I finally did, even messing up one of my own songs. But just like you, you kept nodding your head, encouraging me and we were able to sing…one last time… “Ring of Fire” By Johnny Cash. No matter what we were singing you could always find the perfect harmonies and that evening was no exception. When it was finally time for the residents to go to sleep you had to step away for a bit and many of them came over to me and told me how wonderful and meaningful you were to them. Then as the rain fell outside, you asked if you could have my keys to go to my car and grab my umbrella so I would stay dry as you walked me to my car. I remember I told you that you’d get wet going back in but you just smiled your beautiful smile and said “It’s okay Mom.” You were always caring for me. There was something extra special about your voice that night; I had never heard you sound better and I let you know that. Later, you sent me a note saying “I’m so glad you could make it, Mom. It was wonderful singing with you and so nice to see you…I love you so very much. Best mom in this world!”

How was I to know that this would be the very last time I would be blessed to hear you sing, my beautiful son? How were we both to know that the last two TV commercials we shot together (commercials you never got to see aired) would be the last time we would be that working mother/son team? Before you were even born, we had "acted" together (me modeling the newest ultrasound machines with you in my tummy). I smiled at the screen seeing beautiful you for the first time. As the years went by we continued to work together and separately. Recently our agencies had started booking us as a team, again. You always got a kick out of it when people thought we were siblings or dating (because we always had so much fun, together). “Hey, this is my mom.” You would sweetly correct people, kiss me on the cheek and gently pick me up (sometimes carefully twirling me around). Your last morning on earth one of our agencies called me asking if I could have you call them back for another modeling gig. On a very heartwrenching phone call, the owner told me about the conversation they had "that" morning. She talked of your kindness and inner/outer beauty. She "knew" you would continue to be booked regularly (near and far).

Two days before you left this world, you asked for my help. You were on your way to work, and some road debris had put a leak in your tire/you needed to use the spare. Besides the specialty breaker bar (unique to our BMWs) you needed to borrow, I brought you a rain poncho (which you said you didn’t need but knew I wouldn’t take no for an answer/let me do the “Mom” one more time). You had that tire changed like a pro in no time. With the most handsome/beautiful smile on your face, you got in my car and hugged me goodbye (my last one from you). I followed you over to the air pump. As you made sure there was enough pressure in the spare you lifted your head high enough so I could see you smile another big/genuine smile. I followed you on the highway to your exit. When you got to work I left you a message and asked you if you had thanked God for how well everything had went (that you had been able to make it off the highway in time, without incident). You replied almost immediately with a note that said: “I did, just before I pulled onto JJ (you had a heart here). Thank you SO much mom…so blessed to have you .... I love you so much.” I replied: “... Love you, best son, ever. Make sure to read at least one Bible verse every evening before going to bed and thank God for your health/keeping you safe. Always follow his perfect plan and you will stay on the straight/narrow path to heaven. I want to see you there! (with two hearts).” You replied with a heart.

One day before God took you home you did something you had never done before and sent me a screenshot sharing how long you had been on the phone with a friend. You attached a message to me saying, “My heart…I’m SO blessed (followed by a heart emoji), 2 hours and 27 minutes of the best friendship therapy going both ways…so many laughs and deep conversation….ahh…” 39 minutes later you followed that with an edited accounting of that conversation (because of your attention to detail you wanted me to know it was actually 2 hours and 47 minutes) and wrote, “*47 Goodnight mom (with a heart).”

On the morning of that most unimaginable day we talked (before we both went to work) as you were at the salvage yard to pick up some things for your car. We agreed that we missed going to the salvage yard, together. We talked when I got to school and I sent a note to you about going back to college to finish your college degree. My very last words in a text to you were, “Every single day you’re at the place you’re at, you’re making someone’s world, better.”

There were times things got overwhelming and your mind was racing; we spoke many times about Jesus and his love. Many years ago I gave you a Bible which you had kept on your night stand. One evening I asked you to open your Bible read/share something from the book of Proverbs. That night you sent me this: “Proverbs 10:12 – Hatred stirs up conflict, but love covers all wrongs.” You wrote: “I finally feel at peace after reading through different verses in Proverbs, but this verse really spoke to me." (with a heart). I found your bible and there is still a special bookmark on that page. I miss going to church with you. I miss praying before meals with you. I miss harmonizing on those old gospel songs like, "I'll Fly Away" on road trips, with you.

I am blessed to be surrounded by friends and family who are doing their best to help fill a huge void in my heart today and for the rest of my life. On one of the most difficult evenings, with tear-filled eyes I turned to my Bible for peace. I prayed that God would give me His words to calm my soul. I cried for His mercy and prayed that I could just open my Bible to words of comfort and that God would provide exactly what I needed. And just as He has never failed me…this is what his Word spoke to me when I opened my Bible. Psalms 116. The entire chapter is now committed to memory but one particular verse (15) – it was like a specific message to me from our Heavenly Father “Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints.” After sharing (for the first time) this chapter with those nearby in the kitchen, I looked down and found one of my tear drops had literally fallen on the word, “tears” in verse 5. I pointed to it as friends gathered, their eyes filling with tears, as well.

For every occasion, especially my birthday, Mother's Day and Christmas you made the most beautiful and intricate cards. In my 2024 birthday card some of your words: “… to the most wonderful Mom in the world! I am so proud to call you my Mom. I look up to you and will always look up to you. I know that I wouldn’t have the heart I possess if it weren’t for you. You will always be my mom and my best friend. I’ll love you forever and like you for always.” A few words from my 2024 Mother’s Day card: “I am beyond blessed that you are my mom and I wouldn’t change a thing. My mom, my best friend, my confidant, and my rock. I love you SO very much. Always & Forever, Love, Austin.” From a 2023 Christmas card: "Merry Christmas to the best mom in this world; my biggest inspiration, my best friend. There is no one else I'd rather spend Christmas eve/Christmas day with. Sitting here making this card while you're cooking and singing fills me with so much joy. I am so incredibly blessed to have such a beautiful/lifetime bond with you. Thank you for always being a voice of reason, a shoulder to cry on, and the source of so much happiness. "I'll love you forever and like you for always."

My Austin, I have every single voice mail message, every single card/hand written note/every text message. Many of our friends have told me how blessed I am to have had such a precious and beautiful son who made it very clear how he felt about his mom. You never left me any doubt how much you loved me. I wanted your face to be the last one I saw before taking my last breath. That was the plan.

But God had other plans. Your voice that always seemed to defy anything of this earth is now in Heaven, singing more angelic than ever. Your heart, your smile, your hugs, your laughter, your compassion and your intelligence are missed more, every day. Your friends miss you, every day. I miss you more, every day...and will until my last breath. I’ll see you in Heaven. Until then, every day is unbearable. Every day I wonder if this is only a horrible dream. Every day I wonder what I can do to protect our community/all drivers who should have the right to drive home, safely. Every day I live in a world without you is painful. A mom is supposed to fix things. I always could. But this time ...

I love you (forever, and like you for always)

Mm (Mom)

Please contact Christina if you have updated contact information/would like more information on how to make a difference to share the love of my son and protect other innocent drivers.

Special thank you to Wichmann Funeral home (especially Faith) for exemplary kindness and compassion in a mother's darkest hour.

For more information on how Austin's life is making an impact, please see the 497AustinAlert home page