Minutes to Memories

I called my mom this rainy Independence Day because she’s leaving on another mission trip to Costa Rica tomorrow. She informed me that Willie Sandlin died yesterday, and now my heart is very sad.

Willie died at 46 years of age, far too young if you ask me, yet older than many doctors predicted. His health problems supposedly began on a mission trip to Arizona, and they came to an end at a hospital in Utah, the only place in the world that would touch his complicated situation. I had heard that things were bad for Willie recently, but to tell the truth, that has been the case so many times over the years that I guess I just thought he’d fight through every one. But, no.

I guess it’s fitting that the Cardinals won the last World Series while Willie Sandlin was alive. Only Terry Rush could trump Willie’s collection of Redbird memorabilia, but even Terry couldn’t surpass his passion for the Cardinals.

I don’t think anyone could surpass Willie’s passion for anything.

Willie was one of the best speakers ever. He was a popular speaker from early in his adult life until crazy health issues got in the way. I remember him telling me about what it was like the Sunday he filled in for Max Lucado at Oak Hills in San Antonio, how the thousands of people had to be herded in and out side doors like cattle to get the thousands fed.

I remember when some friends and I began attending the Hillcrest Church of Christ in the days before we lost our spiritual idealism, when we were given the opportunity to plan a huge outreach service. Shannon Beasley and I did most of the program planning, and when it came time to choose a speaker, we wanted Willie Sandlin.

And he delivered.

It was one of the greatest church memories of my life. Shannon invited the youth group from Troy Gramling’s “Southside Community Church,” and that rowdy bunch showed up in full force! The singing was astronomical. Shannon arranged the song “Regardless” for that special night, and by the time the sermon came around, it didn’t seem like it could get any better.

Which was why we asked Willie to speak.

I remember watching Willie at different times over the years. I watched him sing, in particular, on the front row on nights he was to speak. He would sing with his eyes closed, which is dangerous for a Church of Christ speaker. For one, you might screw up the precious four-part harmony by not watching the song leader keep time; for another, someone might think you’re actually getting emotional. But Willie sang with his eyes closed.

Every once in a while now, when preparing to speak, I sing with my eyes closed, too. Trying to be like Willie, I guess.

In the author’s note to Donald Miller’s Blue Like Jazz, he wrote: “I never liked jazz music because jazz music doesn’t resolve. But I was outside the Bagdad Theater in Portland one night when I saw a man playing the saxophone. I stood there for fifteen minutes, and he never opened his eyes. After that I liked jazz music. Sometimes you have to watch somebody love something before you can love it yourself. It is as if they are showing you the way.”

I remember watching Willie love God.

And I remember watching him love his family, too. I coached his oldest son, Josh, when Josh was in the 8th grade. Willie had already been deathly sick, even though this was thirteen years ago now, but I remember watching Willie watch Josh play basketball. I was so absorbed by watching him that I’m sure I wasn’t paying much attention to coaching. One of the first essays I ever wrote (because I wanted to write) was about this. Willie sat on the edge of his seat, entranced, and filled with joy at the honor of being able to watch his son play. I’ll never forget that look as long as I live. You can see it in the picture I swiped from his younger son, Jacob’s, Facebook page, can’t you? I hope you can see it. The sparkle in his eyes is priceless.

I remember writing that Willie watched his son play like Father God must have watched Jesus live.

Willie gave me a similar look at my dad’s funeral. I was 24 years old when my dad died, a young punk kid basketball coach who had never preached a full sermon, much less a eulogy, in his entire life. Out of all the faces looking back at me in that packed funeral home that day, Willie’s is the most vivid. Once again, he was on the edge of his seat. But he didn’t look at me with joy. He looked at me with how I still define the word “compassion” today. He hurt for me with his whole body, and it spilled out of his eyes.

It makes me cry to type this today.

I am a preacher today because of Willie Sandlin. Literally.

My life was getting pretty screwed up around that time. My wife and I had quit working as houseparents at a children’s home, and I was selling insurance. I was trying to sell Willie insurance, in fact. I hated my job, but I didn’t know what else to do. Willie told me that I was being called to ministry. I told him he was full of it. For one, I wasn’t formally trained to be a preacher: he said that didn’t matter. For two, I told him I was getting sort of crazy, and no church would accept me the way I think: he told me I’d be surprised.

After a lot of soul-searching during that formative time of my life, it was Willie I went to with the question: okay, where do I start in becoming a preacher? He told me, and I’ve been honored to be following Willie’s advice ever since.

Willie’s dead now. Jill has lost her husband. Josh and Jacob and April have lost their dad. A whole lot of people have lost a minister and a friend. And the entire world has lost a sparkle of passion.

But a lot of us still hold tight to a lot of inspiration from his brief, brilliant life.

And, knowing Willie, I bet he’s having a whole lot of fun with Jesus right now.