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My friend Jeff forgot to stop being a kid.
His world was this big ball of odd strings that he had collected over the better part of his 54 years. All that brilliance made him the consummate collection of academician, Seinfeld quotes, quest for the perfect diner, amazement over trivia, lover of his family. And faith that was about justice and not ritual could erupt simultaneously in any given sentence.
You learned to talk fast with Jeff, and you learned to never ever assume he was not listening, though his thought pattern was about 15 paces ahead of you. The conversation was like a roller-coaster ride that would dip and pitch and drop and then, just as you felt it was on an even plain, corkscrew to another dimension of humor or seriousness.
Jeff looked into people and saw the stuff that was in there. He saw the fake and fear, he saw the doubt and desire, he saw the ability and potential. I think this is why he was such a great teacher. Sure, he knew his material, his field, but more importantly, he knew people and their hearts.
Jeff was rare. He was mature and capable of accepting his role as one with wisdom and guidance to offer. But he didn't take Jeff too seriously. For one so gifted and brilliant, he was the most humble man I ever knew. And his frequent habits of engaging and complimenting those who cleaned the floor or cooked the meal for pay remind me that we truly are all equal in the eyes of God.
I was always amazed at how Jeff looked at life. There was never cynicism or criticism that guided his view, and he was always quick to challenge me when either laced my observations or attitude. He was that kind of friend -- one who could pry out your misdirected thoughts, set them in front of you to see their error and have you laughing at yourself in one smooth stroke.
Jeff wasn't perfect. He had his places of pride, like that sweeping head of hair that was always in place and combed just right. But his ego was quickly derailed the minute that goofball grin came on his face. I loved it when he flipped on the "serious" switch and began to speak of a matter of importance.
His descriptive brow would hover over those dark eyes and he would lead immediately to the salient point. But he couldn't stay there long. The kid was always rollicking in the background of his spirit, looking for the chance to come out and claim the moment and draw everyone into the game.
When Jeff claimed you, he claimed all of you. Your wife, your kids, your parents, your in-laws, your dogs and cats, your history, your interest, your talents, your shortcomings, your last good moment and your next bad moment were all fodder for any given conversation. He'd find little ways to remind you of your own world, clearly illustrating how deeply interested he was in all that was sacred to you. And amazingly, you discovered that because it was sacred to you, it was sacred to Jeff.
He may have been the best person in all history to tell a joke to. But he couldn't tell one worth a darn. He'd stumble on the punch line or get the sequence wrong or flip-flop the characters, interrupting himself with his own laughter along the way. But when you started to tell him a joke, another gear was reached in his imagination as he tried to beat you to the punch line. And if you caught him off guard, the very rafters rocked with his laughter. Then there had to be a breakdown and analysis of the joke. And then the worst part: He wanted another with the expectation it would eclipse the last.
Jeff was like that -- always setting the table for someone else. He always wanted someone to tell their compelling story or re-live their special moment. As a preamble to the telling, he'd get everyone's attention and announce that you were about to reveal the greatest thing on Earth, build up the moment and turn every spotlight on you. Then, after you shared your story, no matter how grand or inane, the marketing genius would take it from there and assure that everyone agreed it was a great moment.
But you didn't dare leave any part out. Never! If you did, he would question and tug the bits and pieces out, try to tie it all together for you, and help rewrite your tale. Or he would be like the inquisitive child who would ask "why?" about a gazillion times to understand and lead the conversation to a quest of origin, cause and effect. He was like a kitten swatting cotton balls in those moments -- never threatening, but so very playful and quick.
Jeff was mortal. That's too bad for so many of us who drank from the well of his life. He quenched so many doubts and reassured so many of us who try life. He sustained and cheered, he encouraged and prodded, he believed in everybody in his sphere. His energy to love and care were bottomless.
I am going to miss my friend -- the big kid who showed me there was still some kid in me.
I would say I am a better man because of his friendship, but he would have told me I was already a good man, and then he would have shoved me off the self-pity hill with a laugh. You know, sort of like Jesus did when his friends were having their moment of doubt and he pulled a kid from the crowd and said, "Here, be like him."
I hope Jesus likes Seinfeld.
Matt Idom is senior pastor of First United Methodist Church of Bryan.
