My good friend, Ryan Jennings, lives in Healdton, Oklahoma. Healdton is a small, oil field town that has seen its fortunes run dry and, back in 1984, my dad was called to pastor a small Baptist Church there called Bethel Baptist. I was 11 years old that winter holiday when we packed our belongings and moved out of Texas, and Ryan Jennings was one of the first kids I met. Healdton, no doubt, has a rich history and many a story to tell. But its days of being a boomtown are long past it and, for me at least, it has very little to offer me—except one vital resource: friends.
You see, some of the greatest friends I have were found in that little one stoplight town, and the impact of their friendship is still felt today. Even those I don’t get to see or talk to as often as I would like have still burned themselves into my memory with grace and goodness and truth. I think of Mike Moberly and Shelly Dewitt (who was a Webb back then) and how God used them to flip a light on in my soul—a light that illuminated how long I’d been running from the call of God because I didn’t think He could use a teenager. I think of Rev. Mike Williams, not a pastor back then, but a good man whose entire family brought grace and laughter to my family in our darkest moments. I think of Sheila Tolbert, whose joy shone so brightly I can see it still…and even now, when we talk on the phone, I hear it swelling beneath her voice like a heavenly chorus. I think of Nicole Jennings who not only put up with countless pranks from her brother and I, but has grown into a lovely woman I can call a friend and a sister. She continues to be an instrument of God’s grace just by being herself. I think of Rachel Patman (now Rachel Petty, if memory serves) and her quiet wisdom…and I could go on and on about others.
Of them all, three brothers have walked with me the closest and the longest. Scott Badley, the youngest of our quartet (oh, that we could actually sing!), is that man you always hear about…the one who would give you the shirt off his back. When trouble comes to call, Scott’s got your back, and he’s had mine for more years than I care to admit. Jason Webb was my confidant. When, over time, I fell into a leadership role, Jason was the one I could always be weak with. I could count on him to be rough with me, too, any time I needed a tougher love. And now, we have daughters near each other in age that have become friends and Jason is still that guy—the one that speaks truth to me and receives truth from me. Like Scott, he’s a brother in every real sense of the word save blood, and in the end the grace and love these men bring into my life counts for more than blood ever could.
This past Saturday, however, it was my dear friend, Ryan Jennings (one quarter of the aforementioned quartet) who reminded me how good it is to have not only friends, but friends who have walked with you throughout your life. Ryan and I are vastly different people on many levels—from music to movies, from our church backgrounds to what we look for in a hometown—but our foundation was built on a love much greater than the two odd men who find themselves blessed by it. Over the years, Ryan and I have walked through valleys together. When trouble comes to call, I stand by him. When I’ve lost people I love, Ryan (like Scott and Jason) comes running.
On Saturday, as I drove with Ryan and my oldest daughter from Oklahoma City back to Ardmore, Oklahoma where Ryan had left his car, we talked about the music we grew up with. Ryan played a few tracks from Second Chapter of Acts and the Imperials and we enjoyed singing along with someone who shared the same musical history. I mentioned that the gospel music of B. J. Thomas held sweet memories for me and, it turned out, the same was true for Ryan. I plugged in my iPhone and started playing the songs I had from that era and we, again, sang along and reminisced. A couple of songs in, the track “Home Where I Belong” played and I found myself shaken. It was one of my dad’s favorite songs from those days and I have bright and vivid memories of him rocking with me on his knee and singing along with it.
I was my father’s son from the day I was born. My mother used to tell me that I lit up when my dad came home from work…and he would light up to. When he became a pastor, he became MY pastor and I’ve been spoiled ever since. I heard the gospel from his lips. I learned that being a real man means being a man of peace and grace. I saw him weep with conviction, laugh in pure delight and proclaim the gospel of Christ as if it were his sustenance. I saw him mistreated and belittled by religious folks who had never known the grace of an encounter with Christ and watched as his love and mercy for them drove them madder still.
My dad was sick on and off for most of his life. There were more hospital stays than I can remember and a dozen times or more that we were told his life was over. But dad kept beating the odds. God kept reminding us all Who truly determines the number of days we are afforded. It’s sad to say, but that sort of life prepares you for its inevitable end. Every time he was hospitalized it could have been the last time. So, when Dad finally left us, we were prepared. Not ready, mind you. You’re never ready to lose someone you love. But we were prepared to face it.
Dad was my hero. He was flawed, as every man is, but he walked in grace and in a righteousness that wasn’t his own. As hard as it was to lose him, I rejoiced with the saints that he had graduated to something better. Because of that, my longing for my dad doesn’t press on me as often or as hard as the loss of my mother or younger brother.
Saturday, though, as B.J. Thomas sang that song, I missed him fiercely. I told Ryan it was my dad’s favorite and that it was hard to listen to…but I didn’t turn it off. You see, while that song played, I spent time with my daddy. I was a kid again, rocking in his lap, listening to him sing. And as I listened, I understood what that song must have always meant to him. I think heaven was on his mind more than I ever realized. How could you live the life he lived—have survived the illnesses he had—without knowing you’d likely never live to see old age? So, as that song played and I thought about what the lyrics really meant to my dad, I wept. I’m a weepy guy and I have no trouble admitting it, but I was in a car flying down the interstate with my daughter and my good friend and I had no desire to make anyone uncomfortable. So I remained silent and let the tears flow, hoping that maybe they’d go unnoticed. But they didn’t.
Right as my longing to just hug my dad again collided with the joy of knowing he’s now home and fought to strangle a sob out of me, my dear friend…who knew my dad, who loved my dad the way I love his parents…said just loud enough for me to hear, “You know…he’s still serving Him gladly.” I could only nod and stay focused on the job of driving, but those words, as few as they were, struck a blow for joy that claimed that battle. I don’t know how to describe it. I don’t know if you, dear reader, are blessed to have such a friend. Ryan, whether he realized it or not, wasn’t just trying to comfort me. He wasn’t trying to break the tension of an uncomfortable moment. He was a brother—one of the finest I know—speaking a word of truth, being a living instrument of the grace of the living God.
Just as I wept in the car that night, I weep now writing it all out for you. But hear me say this: God is good. In the midst of trial and uncertainty, He may give you a song—a reminder that Home is not made by human hands—to help you persevere and use what time you’ve been afforded for the glory of His name. In the heartache of loss, He may use a photograph, a forgotten song, or the scent of an old book to give you a blessed moment or two to be a child again, listening to your Daddy sing. In the longing for a loved one, He may give a brother the wisdom to say just the right thing to set you free from that moment of pain.
I’ve been blessed to overflowing with friends who love God and bring His grace into my life—friends who have walked down so many roads with me that we don’t have to say a lot to be impactful. There’s a shorthand to it all. I never have to think, “Will they come running to help?” I know they’ll come running when I need them…just as I know I’ll go running when the call goes out.
Listen to your life, dear friend. Examine it closely for the threads of grace running through every battleground or time of sorrow. I guarantee you that you’ll find them. And though, at times, we want a booming voice from heaven to say, “Relax. I’ve got this. It’s going to be okay,” sometimes all we really need is an old friend to quietly say, “He still serves Him gladly.”
