He Asked Me to Tell His Story

One of the last text messages Chris sent me before he died was that he wanted my help telling his story.

This is not the way I thought it would happen. But I did think, somewhere in the back of my mind, that I would one day be telling his story after his death. Because Chris was that kind of person. The kind who carries more than most people know. The kind whose life deserves more than a headline or a last chapter.

Because he asked me to, I’m going to try.

I have known Chris longer than I can actually remember. We grew up in a small town where the graduating class runs 70 to 80 kids, which means you don’t just go to school with someone. You go to church with them. You play ball with them. You grow up alongside them in all the ways that small towns make you do whether you planned to or not.

We were just toddlers when Chris was adopted. I have pictures of us on teams together from tee-ball all the way through high school. Those pictures span more years than most friendships last.

One thing that would catch you off guard about Chris was that he was an exceptional athlete. He was small and thin, the kind of build that made people underestimate him before they saw him play. He was a catcher with real grit and a gift for finding a way to get on base. In eighth grade he got moved up to play with the older kids because he was the only one who could catch for a pitcher who threw fire. That tells you something about him. He found a way to be necessary.

When we were in middle school he tried out for football. Because of his size, none of us thought he would last long. But he made the team, and then he did more than survive. The coach put him at nose tackle, which surprised everyone. What surprised us even more was watching him get into the backfield faster than anyone had a right to. I have never quite seen anything like it.

That was Chris. Undersized by every measure that didn’t actually matter.

He was also part of the youth group at First Baptist. I remember him having real encounters with Christ in those years. He was just like all of us, a kid growing up in a small town with a strong Christian family, trying to figure out who he was and sowing his oats along the way.

Then in high school, Chris got into some trouble. The kind of trouble that changes the trajectory of things. In the middle of it all, his family moved, and just like that, he was gone. I didn’t see him again for years.

That was until about eight years ago.

I was living in Huntsville and working at a plumbing supply house. One day I looked up from the counter and saw a bigger guy with a long beard walking toward me. Something about the face stopped me before I could place it.

It was Chris.

I don’t know how to fully explain what it feels like to recognize someone you haven’t seen since before everything fell apart. The years collapse and you’re suddenly aware of all the distance between then and now, and also aware that the person standing in front of you made it through that distance too.

We picked up the way you do when the roots go deep enough. He was a plumber now. I was the supply guy. Our lives had looped back around to each other in the most ordinary and unexpected way.

Chris as an adult was someone to admire. He worked late into the night to make sure people’s problems got fixed. He was the kind of tradesman who took his word seriously and kept it. He was fair and honest, and he was funny in the way that fills a room without trying.

He eventually got his master plumbing license and started his own business. He built something real. Something to be proud of.

He loved his family. He loved his son. He used to post videos and pictures of his boy playing baseball, and every time I saw them I thought of those old tee-ball pictures. His son had the same look. The same focus. The same way of carrying himself at the plate.

Chris had passed something good on.

Chris’s life ended too soon. I am not going to pretend otherwise, and I am not going to look away from the weight of that.

But I refuse to let the last few months of his life tell the full story. Because they don’t. They can’t.

Chris was someone who fought against his own demons and against the way people reduce a person to their worst moments, and he won that fight. He built a life. He raised a son. He worked with his hands and kept his word and made people laugh. He reached out to an old friend and asked him to remember him right.

Even if the demons rose again at the end, that is not how I see him. That is not the story he asked me to tell.

This is: Chris was a good man. He was my friend. And he deserved more time.

I am glad he trusted me with this. I am going to try to be worthy of it.