Hey, man...
It's sad for me that my friend Jim is gone. You don't really realize how close you get to people, until they're not there anymore. Yesterday, I heard a good deal about my buddy Jim at his memorial service. And fortunately, Jim had good friends as well that he confided in about some of the people in his life.
Jim was my coffee drinking buddy. At just the right time, Jim would call me and invite me to coffee or over to his house for a cup of coffee. He was always good for a story, a laugh, some advice when he thought I needed it, and helped me diagnose the truck issue I had last summer. Jim had just about every tool you can think of and was always kind enough to loan them to me when I needed one he had and I couldn't afford.
I'm not sad for Jim though. I know (and this is the first time I can say I fully understand that statement) that Big Jim is at home with Jesus. He's not experiencing the physical suffering that kept him sidelined for most of the last few years. Although I'm sad we won't get to make that trip to Montana to see our friend Jess, I'm happy to know that Jim isn't in pain.
If they have coffee in Heaven, Jim will be there and making all kinds of new friends. Not a person spoke of Jim that didn't have several deep conversations over coffee. The ones I remember most though won't involve a cup and a talk.
The most important time Jim and I ever spent together was on the day I thought he was going to die. I mean that. He had me drive him down to the VA hospital in Salt Lake and at several points during the day, Jim's blood pressure was one number. The rest of humanity usually has two. I saw Jim's blood pressure at one point be fifty-something. I think I remember it getting down to 34 at one point.
When they finally decided that Jim was going to be admitted to the ICU, I accompanied him and the nurse in the elevator. Having the nurse ask you what your wishes are in case you don't make it through the elevator ride without dying will open your eyes to a whole bunch of brand new realities. The last face Jim could have seen very well could have been mine.
I knew Jim was ready. Jim was a diamond in the rough Christian. He was Jim, but he knew Jesus. He knew what salvation entailed. And I know Jim is at home. I can't be unhappy for him for that, but just sad for me. Jim had this laugh, and this way about him that I just enjoyed.
At his service, though, I found out that Jim's time with me also meant a lot to him. His friend told those of us in his church family what Jim confided in her about each of us and how we'd touched his lives. I knew Jim liked me, but I didn't know that some of the stuff we'd done together had such an impact on him. That's good to know.
I've been thinking of him a bit today. I can still hear his voice on the phone..."Hey, man...this is Jim". I won't hear that again for a while, but I will someday, in my other home, when I get to see Jim again. I'm sure there will be a nod and the greeting will be:
"Hey, man..."
Jim was my coffee drinking buddy. At just the right time, Jim would call me and invite me to coffee or over to his house for a cup of coffee. He was always good for a story, a laugh, some advice when he thought I needed it, and helped me diagnose the truck issue I had last summer. Jim had just about every tool you can think of and was always kind enough to loan them to me when I needed one he had and I couldn't afford.
I'm not sad for Jim though. I know (and this is the first time I can say I fully understand that statement) that Big Jim is at home with Jesus. He's not experiencing the physical suffering that kept him sidelined for most of the last few years. Although I'm sad we won't get to make that trip to Montana to see our friend Jess, I'm happy to know that Jim isn't in pain.
If they have coffee in Heaven, Jim will be there and making all kinds of new friends. Not a person spoke of Jim that didn't have several deep conversations over coffee. The ones I remember most though won't involve a cup and a talk.
The most important time Jim and I ever spent together was on the day I thought he was going to die. I mean that. He had me drive him down to the VA hospital in Salt Lake and at several points during the day, Jim's blood pressure was one number. The rest of humanity usually has two. I saw Jim's blood pressure at one point be fifty-something. I think I remember it getting down to 34 at one point.
When they finally decided that Jim was going to be admitted to the ICU, I accompanied him and the nurse in the elevator. Having the nurse ask you what your wishes are in case you don't make it through the elevator ride without dying will open your eyes to a whole bunch of brand new realities. The last face Jim could have seen very well could have been mine.
I knew Jim was ready. Jim was a diamond in the rough Christian. He was Jim, but he knew Jesus. He knew what salvation entailed. And I know Jim is at home. I can't be unhappy for him for that, but just sad for me. Jim had this laugh, and this way about him that I just enjoyed.
At his service, though, I found out that Jim's time with me also meant a lot to him. His friend told those of us in his church family what Jim confided in her about each of us and how we'd touched his lives. I knew Jim liked me, but I didn't know that some of the stuff we'd done together had such an impact on him. That's good to know.
I've been thinking of him a bit today. I can still hear his voice on the phone..."Hey, man...this is Jim". I won't hear that again for a while, but I will someday, in my other home, when I get to see Jim again. I'm sure there will be a nod and the greeting will be:
"Hey, man..."
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