I woke up this morning wondering what I could write tonight, if I could write tonight, why I should write tonight. And then I read the words of my young friend ... words that pierced my heart as surely as if they had been made of the purest untouched steel. Tears poured down my cheeks and I knew beyond the shadow of any doubt that Jeni's words were the living, breathing embodiment of what it means to pay it forward ... to give of yourself to another ... to create a legacy that reaches far beyond what most of us could ever even imagine. So tonight, friends ... tonight, I am honored to share with you the words of my sweet friend Jeni Schroff. My deepest hope is that you will allow them to soak into your heart and flow throughout your soul ... my fervent prayer is that her words will cause you to understand that people come into our lives for a reason and that the intersection of our journeys is a gift far more precious than gold.
"Grab a beverage and have a seat, if you can spare a few. My heart needs a soapbox for a minute or five. It's not often I speak about my journey here - at least this part of it. Remembering is bittersweet...
Roughly five years ago, I was in the depths of the worst chapter of my life. Some of you may remember, those who do not, consider yourself lucky. My family had fallen apart, I was feeling more lost than I could ever imagine and I was in the middle of the fight of my life - with no idea where to start.
After relocating to a tiny, Missouri town, I found myself working the overnight shift at a gas station which sold both machetes and a larger 'chew' assortment than I had ever seen. It was the most tumultuous time I can remember, but the people who entered my path throughout this chapter, assured that it wouldn't be so dark forever.
One of whom I lost last week.
***
I was mid-shift and town was dark and quiet. It was a muggy, buggy summer night and the stars shone bright as I swapped out the trash bags near the gas pumps, as I did every night before the sun came up, while swatting away insects large enough you could practically saddle and ride.
Before long, a 70's era, baby blue pick-up rumbled into the parking lot and a man with piercing blue eyes, white hair, a trucker cap and overalls (the only attire I ever witnessed him in) wandered into the building.
I assumed my place behind the counter as he entered, greeting him, and he returned the salutation.
He stared at the candy assortment in front of the counter for a few minutes before I asked him what he was after, hoping I could help this old farmer on his way so that I could get back to my coffee and my duties before the early-morning locals started arriving for their coffees, bait and diesel for the day.
'I need some bubble gum for my bitch,' he said with a dead-pan face, eyes meeting mine.
I tried not to flinch - thinking he was referring to his other half, 'Well, does she like a certain type?'
'I don't know. She's a damn mutt,' he replied. 'S'pose I could ask her.'
Those trademark eyes gleamed with mischief as they caught mine before his head tipped back and a monstrously genuine fit of laughter erupted, and I couldn't help but join in.
Jim visited the humble gas station, most nights before he tucked in for the night. He came late, when most of the townsfolk were fast asleep and he'd sit out front at a little table with plastic chairs, sipping coffee out of his travel mug and smoking his hand-stuffed cigarettes.
I'd go sit with him between tasks and customers. He knew everyone in that town by name, and had an opinion on most of them. He was full of colorful stories, crude humor, foul language and more love and generosity than I had experienced in a long time.
We were both thankful for the newfound friendship, as unconventional as it appeared, and I knew he was also keeping a watchful eye on me, which I needed. He had me roaring with laughter, snorting my coffee out night after night, but he also listened and asked questions and cared. A lot. And he was one persistent bastard.
He kept me honest. He kept me hopeful. He kept me accountable to who he knew I was and, probably more important than anything, he kept me from ever giving up, and hell, I was so close many times.
Months later, I started working as a dishwasher at the local greasy spoon. At some point, most days, I'd hear his unmistakable laughter or catch sight of him through the kitchen window, perched on a barstool, over a cup of coffee and a slice of pie.
If he didn't make it in to the diner between errands while in town, I'd often find tell-tale signs he'd been around. He'd leave fresh fruits and veggies in my truck, or he'd cruise by the back stoop to see if I wanted to go fishing at one of the nearby ponds later.
We got a kick out of the looks we received from the people around town as we cruised about in his beast of a truck, windows down, delighting in the sprawling, country afternoons.
He always assured me, that no matter what life threw at me, or my son, he'd do anything and everything for us, and I know he meant it. He always showed up when I needed him most, in his trademark overalls, boots, t-shirt, cap ensemble and gleaming grin.
I called him first when bad or good things happened, which was often challenging as he only had a land-line and an answering machine he sometimes checked when he wasn't out working on his garden or tending his chickens with Tilly, his "bitch", who did, in fact, enjoy chewing bubble gum.
When I moved away, he still drove that beat up truck into the city for birthday parties and visits. When life separated us further, we wrote letters. Yes, hand-written letters on lined paper, often pages long.
As my life became livable and began flourishing, he became a grandfather and we slowly lost touch. I know he still thought of me and I often wondered how he was doing, but one thing or another would get in the way of making contact again.
I finally sat down and wrote him a letter a few months back. I have so much joy in my life and I couldn't help but to want to share it with him. He was, after all, so much of the reason I found my way back to civilization, so to speak.
Back to life.
I never heard back, which makes sense now that I have learned how ill he's been for the past two years. Though I'm equally angry with him and myself for not having reached out to one another throughout those two years, I know he didn't want to bother me with his health, which he never took too seriously in the first place.
Then the news came this week, that he was gone. Just like that. Gone.
This isn't a rambling sermon on loving those near and far while you can. No, far be it for me to tell anyone how to live. This is merely a reminder that love is everywhere, even in the least expected places, if your heart is open to it.
There wasn't a more unlikely duo in the history of the world, in my opinion. Me, tattooed and angry with the world, drinking enough vodka to keep the local liquor store in business, and carrying around a boatload of baggage, lost completely. Him, unabashedly crude and slightly racy in his commentary most days, steady and unfaltering in his routine and heart, always finding something to smirk at.
But the universe brought us together and the chapter we wrote together, will always be one of my favorites.
I'm kicking myself for letting our friendship fade so easily, but I know he would have had it no other way. He was so unselfish like that.
So, I'm going to waddle up to his grave-side service tomorrow with my story, my eternal gratitude, my intense sadness at the loss of this amazing friend, and my two (and a half) sons to bid farewell with a heavy but bursting heart for this genuine giant of a man.
(I know I promised not to preach, but I'm the granddaughter of a Southern Baptist preacher, so just gimme a quick minute and a bitta grace.)
Look for love. Be the love you're looking for. Let people in, but also let them go.
And be thankful for the time spent with each and every person you encounter. Time and love are the only true currencies we have, after all, to give one another.
That is, obviously what my friend Jim had figured out and what made him so rich in spirit, despite the modest home, routine lifestyle and unassuming look of him.
We might not always be here in the flesh, but the love we leave here will nurture far and wide. At least that's the hope, right?
Many people had their own opinions about Jim. He loved that the townies couldn't quite figure him out.
I'm so thankful that I took the time to, and that he took time for me.
...Now, go share a spliff with the other storytellers around the catfish ponds in the clouds, Jim. Rest assured, your love will not be squandered, but rather a testament of the lifesaving power of love in every dusty corner of the world.
You changed my world forever and I'll be forever thankful...
(I'm even designing a thigh tattoo in your honor - which I'm sure would tickle your fancy, you dirty, old man.)
Thanks for reading, friends and family far and wide. I love you, too. You should know that."
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