Wednesday afternoon I sat in the worship center of First Baptist Church with many of my closest friends to say goodbye to a man who would not leave me alone.
The previous Sunday morning, as I was setting up my music to play with the church orchestra, only minutes before church started, Hank tapped me on the shoulder and said simply, “Don passed away this morning.” Our friend, Don, who was 73-years-old, had been very sick, so the news wasn’t a huge surprise. But I felt the loss in my heart immediately.
I first met Don at the Good News Guys Reunion Group, a men’s share group that met once a week to talk about our lives and how we were trying to live as Christians. We met for an hour over lunch to encourage one another, offer advice, and pray for each other. One particular week Don earned the nickname DOB because he confessed that the previous week as he drove to our meeting he realized he had nothing to share so he decided to drive on by, thus, D.O.B.
Another time I told a story at our reunion group about my attempt to donate blood two days earlier but they wouldn’t let me donate because my blood pressure was too high. Both numbers, diastolic and systolic, were in triple digits … high enough to frighten the young phlebotomist. While I was lamenting the fact to my fellow Good News Guys that they wouldn’t take my blood, Don quietly asked if I’d seen a doctor yet. I said no. Don phoned me the next day to ask if I’d seen a doctor, but I said no again. He called me everyday until I made a doctor’s appointment, then kept calling everyday until I actually went to see the doctor, and then phoned everyday until I had my prescription filled. He would not leave me alone.
Don’s right hand didn’t work very well; I always tried to remember to shake his left hand, but I forgot more times than I remembered. Sometimes Don would have to hold his right hand up with his left, a lot of trouble just to shake my hand, but he did it smiling and with grace. I would often be embarrassed that I’d failed to honor him by remembering, but he didn’t seem to care.
To be such a quiet and unassuming man, Don had a huge impact on my life. It was always impossible for me to sneak past him, whether in the hallway at church or in some parking lot around town. He always tracked me down. Don would walk beside me, put his arm around me, and say, “I love you, man.” He often followed me out to the parking lot to my pickup to tell me something he’d just read or heard on the radio, or he would quote my own Journals back to me. I was amazed that he paid so much attention to what I wrote.
Don would ask me if I’d read a certain book, usually about current events or more often about religion. The next time he saw me, he would ask about the book again. If I told him I still hadn’t read it yet he would ask if it was on my shelf (he knew I had a to-read shelf with books I intended to read next). The next time he saw me he would be carrying a plastic bag from Barnes and Nobles with a copy of the book in it and he would give it to me. He’d say, “No, hurry, but after you read this, give me a report. I want to know what you think.” Once he knew something I would enjoy, he wouldn’t leave me alone about it.
For the past three years I saw Don every Thursday morning at Whataburger and he’d ask about my 6:30 AM men’s study. He knew I’d driven straight from church and he wanted to hear my assessment while the class was still fresh on my mind. In fact, as I’m typing these thoughts on my laptop, I’m sitting in Don’s old booth at Whataburger hoping to channel a bit of his grace and humor into this Journal.
I hope I’m like Don when I grow up. I hope my heart is full of grace, like Don’s. I hope my eyes sparkle with joy, like his. I hope I’ll be gentle and kind when people shake the wrong hand or do the wrong thing. I hope I’ll always be as quick with a joke.
Don was a confirmation of how one gentle man can change the lives of hundreds of people who surround him. I am blessed to have had a friend like Don, who would not let me go. I want to be like him.
