There is most certainly the stuff of wonder intricately woven within the stuff of astonishing tragedy. Never has this truth been more clear to me than in this past week.

On Sunday, October 30, 2005, Kyle Lake died a good death. Kyle, who is pastor of University Baptist Church in Waco and a burgeoning author, was considered by hundreds to be an inspiring preacher, a loving husband and father, an energetic athlete and friend, a mentor, counselor, and wonderful example of someone who knew how to live life well.

I would have become Kyle’s friend next year. We had spent an hour or so one afternoon talking about the possibility of me going into a mentorship under him – this is part of the degree plan I follow at Truett. I am interested in college ministry as it relates to the local church, and felt Kyle would be a great choice for a guide in such things. Over coffee one afternoon in late June, we shared with one another our views on ministry and the calling of a Christian – I found him to be insightful and intelligent and very, very fun. I looked forward to getting to know him better.

As I sat in the funeral service last Tuesday and listened to friends and family recount humorous and poignant stories of his life, I lamented that I did not have the chance to get to know Kyle better. Some might offer that this is a good thing, because I don’t have to go through as severe a devastation at the loss. My response to that would be, Never exchange a relationship for an escape from experiencing pain – that is a tragic trade.

Kyle died a good death. He was electrocuted while preparing to perform the sacrament of baptism. It was terrible and heartrending, and it came at the most devastating time (he was only 33!), but it was a good death. There is no better way for him to have left his church than in the act of bringing someone into the Church. Seeing it one way, his life indeed came full circle. He is a testimony to us all, an example of a true minister of God.

Perhaps the most astonishing thing was not Kyle’s sudden death, but what was shared at his funeral – the conclusion to what would be the last sermon Kyle would ever write. It is a closing statement like no other. In the word of my friend, Janalee, it is truly “divine.” I humbly use this blog now as an opportunity to share Kyle’s last words with all of you.

Live. And Live Well.
BREATHE. Breathe in and Breathe deeply. Be PRESENT. Do not be past. Do not be future. Be now.
On a crystal clear, breezy 70 degree day, roll down the windows and FEEL the wind against your skin. Feel the warmth of the sun.
If you run, then allow those first few breaths on a cool Autumn day to FREEZE your lungs and do not just be alarmed, be ALIVE.
Get knee-deep in a novel and LOSE track of time.
If you bike, pedal HARD … and if you crash then crash well.
Feel the SATISFACTION of a job well done … a paper well-written, a project thoroughly completed, a play well-performed.
If you must wipe the snot from your 3-year old’s nose, don’t be disgusted if the Kleenex didn’t catch it all … because soon he’ll be wiping his own.
If you’’ve recently experienced loss, then GRIEVE. And Grieve well.
At the table with friends and family, LAUGH. If you’re eating and laughing at the same time, then might as well laugh until you puke. And if you eat, then SMELL. The aromas are not impediments to your day. Steak on the grill, coffee beans freshly ground, cookies in the oven. And TASTE. Taste every ounce of flavor. Taste every ounce of friendship. Taste every ounce of Life. Because-it-is-most-definitely-a-Gift.

I will miss you, Kyle. Someday soon I will indeed become your friend.

She is a woman in my church, an elderly, slightly diminuitive lady with short gray hair, a sharply southern, throaty singing voice, and a love for hymns. She cannot be more than five feet tall, so this means that there is not much you can see of her when she stands behind the pulpit to lead the hymns and share one of her many cherished songs on Sunday mornings. There is just her metronomic hand keeping rhythm and her calmly pious face as she voices verse after verse, her expression seeming pleasantly lost somewhere between the past moment in time in which the hymn was written and the present reality of Sunday morning worship in which we all sit and sing along.
Willie is cherished by the congregation as much as she cherishes her hymns. Come Christmas, she is called on several times to sing “O Holy Night” in her haunting, southern style. The pitch of her voice would ne’er make a record producer’s head turn, but it commands the attention of every person in our sanctuary, young and old. It is shrill, but a beautiful shrillness that summons to your mind a tapestry of southern heritage. I can picture Willie’s mother or grandmother sitting with her at an old, upright piano, teaching her the hymns that were probably not that old back then. She doesn’t correct her daughter’s unique voice; she simply nods and sings along and tells Willie how gorgeous she has performed the verses.
Today, Willie sang two hymns at the funeral of one of the deacons of our church. It occured to me how long she must have known the man, who had been a member of the church for over forty years. I was struck with the poignancy of it all. How much emotion must have gone into the singing of those hymns. She had sung “Amazing Grace” and “The Old Rugged Cross” many times before, but today they were meant as a tribute. A tribute to a wonderful man and his great Savior.
There are hymns she does not know, some that I or our pastor occasionally pick for the service, that she will admit in front of the entire congregation that she is unsure how to sing. Sometimes she will call out one hymn and accidentally sing the words of the one adjacent to it in the hymnbook. This can go on for several verses, but she doesn’t stop. Getting lost in the words is more important to her than listening for the right musical cues or watching the congregation to make sure we are keeping up. I believe she would confidently tell you this if she was not so humble. It is hardly a wonder the church loves her. It is certainly a wonder someone like her exists.

In many ways, this post is merely a sketch of a woman I realize deserves her own tribute. But I also imagine what it would be like in the church today if more of us sought to be like Willie. Few of us have a voice for music that can captivate a congregation, but I believe all of us have something to offer that can serve as a diamond amidst the rough of this sojourn we tarry through on earth. The key is finding out what that is, though I don’t think we necessarily have to be as proactive as many motivational speakers and badly-written lifestyle books stress we must. I don’t think Willie ever intentionally decided to be the person my church sees. I think she just does what comes natural, and has been living as such for many years. What comes natural to her is that hauntingly shrill voice of beauty, and the way those timeless words of hymnody roll from her tongue.
If we truly seek to do what is natural, I think God will handle the rest. Of such are the true people of God. Of such is the Church.

A Baptist chapel in Kennebunkport