“I just want to finish well.” I blurted out, speaking of the turbulent chapter in my life.

“Wait, what?” My pastor friend queried, sliding his notepad in front of him. “I need to write that down. That’s how I’m going to wrap up my sermon. What did you just say?”

I slowed down a bit and reiterated my complete thought as I closed the door to his office and pulled out the chair across from him. I had no idea he was studying the same portion of scripture I had read the previous evening that caused me to spout off the statement

              In this case, although I was more than 30 years his junior, he treated me as his peer and referred to me as brother or bro as we chuckled about how my unplanned detour was what he needed in that moment. Him and I shared a love for coffee and both kept a stash of K-cup pods in our offices.

              “I got you. Don’t even worry.” He said, placing my mug under the Keurig he kept in his office knowing that I was on my way to the freshly brewed coffee in the staff kitchen but hadn’t quite made it there.

              He spun back towards me, slid my coffee across the desk and opened his well-worn bible. For the entirety of our lunch break, we spoke about what it means to finish well.

              The following evening, I sat in church so excited and honored to have helped him wrap up his sermon. He spoke powerfully and with conviction as he sung his way through parts of the message. I hummed along and smiled. During many of his messages, he would break out in song if an old hymn would help make a point.

              “Growing up, my mama was a Pentecostal preacher. When we didn’t have food on the table, she would start singin’.” He would say as he began singing with a voice that could have topped the latest gospel music charts. As if it were on cue, instead of awkwardly squirming in their seats, glancing around the room, the congregation would begin singing along as if he were the choir director leading them through the melody.

              This wasn’t the first, or the last, time I sat across from him with the aroma of steaming coffee filling the room. Most often, he lovingly, and probably more fittingly, referred to me as, son.

              Over the years, he mentored me through some of the hardest times in my life. He was quick to encourage me and found every excuse to tell me I was “as smart as a whip” but wouldn’t hesitate to gently correct me when needed.

              Despite having a large family of his own, mentoring many married couples and single men, and having so many other responsibilities, I, along with thousands of others were impacted by his selflessness in a way that words cannot express. I would like to think I was the only one but so many of us guys were son to him. Until the very end, he always had time to pray, time to talk, or time to just listen to all of us. He was always there to run alongside of us and to encourage us to finish well.

              He was my friend. He was my pastor. He was my brother. He was my mentor.

              He has finished well.

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