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| Steve Griffith, all bright-eyed, bushy-haired and having fun, smiles wide for the camera. That's me at the top, and Dave 'Silk' Back at right. And that's Danny Griffith in there, too. Circa 1979. |
I REMEMBER A NIGHT in
June 1978 when Steve Griffith talked me off the ledge, figuratively speaking. We
sat on the front porch of the Griffith 2:30 in the morning. He
listened patiently and spoke
cautiously like someone who was much older than a 20 year old, which
is how old he was at the time.
On this one particular night, Steve could sense my sadness. While the others snarfed up pizza and potato chips like they were on a prison break, I just played along quietly. During a lull in the card game, Steve quietly asked me to help him get something out of his car. It was really just his way of getting me outside to talk.
"Tell me what's up," he said. He looked genuinely interested.
"And did you really think this relationship was going to last forever?" he asked me later.
And then, "Kirb, is there a lesson in all of this that might make you better as a person?" he concluded, which was a fair question.
I remember feeling so grateful for what he did, because once we had finished talking, I felt so much better. The sun would come up in the morning. My personal worth did not depend on the attention of any one person. And God has a plan for all of our lives, which very often means the disappointments we experience are actually blessings in disguise.
Wow. This was good stuff. Thanks, Steve.
That's when something else really remarkable occurred, something I didn't see coming.
Suddenly, amazingly, Steve didn't seem like such a goofball anymore.
I knew he had a passion and a goal for one day being a pastor, and I knew that's what he was in college to study. But, in all honesty, I never thought he would become one.
Pastors weren't allowed to have fun, I thought. They weren't allowed to laugh and be funny ... and be real. In my Catholic upbringing, where the church building was a solemn sanctuary used only to recite creeds, God didn't have a sense of humor. So it never occurred to me to look at Steve (or Danny) and say, "You know, they're going to lead a church one day." No, no, no, no.
But my opinion changed that night, of Steve anyway (Danny had a ways to go to convince me) and it remained that way ever since. Steve had an infectious faith that gave him a personal peace, and I knew I needed what he had.
Even when he imitated a gorilla.
I GO TO CHURCH, BUT I don't always understand God. I believe He's there and wants to help me live a peaceful and purposeful life. But I don't understand why we must endure life's hardships just so we can learn a lesson or receive a blessing. I just don't get it. Why does a girl have to break up with me and practically kill me before I can learn how to handle a relationship better the second time around? Why not just give me clear instructions from the beginning?
And why do good people have to die young?
When I heard that Steve died suddenly the other night, while teaching a Bible study no less, I felt so bad. He was doing such meaningful work. He was a loving husband, a great father and, just recently, a very proud grandfather. Additionally, I stay in touch with Danny, who has always regarded Steve as not just an older brother, but his best friend. So Steve will be missed terribly by so many people. It's a tragic loss. It's heartache.
I have to admit, in the middle of my sadness, I began to get a little ticked off. I said to God, "Seriously, Charles Manson is still alive and Steve Griffith is gone? What's the deal?" I'm not sure my dialogue would be called a prayer exactly, but it was a conversation between me and God, and I read in a book one time that it might technically qualify.
There are so many things in life I'll never understand. Steve's sudden death is one of them. While I hear other people say it's time to give God all the glory and praise His holy name, there's a part of me that can't say that. Instead, I'm more like a defiant Tom Cruise in the movie, A Few Good Men: "I want answers! I want the truth!"
But let me tell you something. The more I sat and reminisced about Steve, the more another emotion came over me, an emotion I don't usually find when a young person dies.
I found peace. I found it because I realized Steve was at total peace, and had lived his life that way.
When we lose sight of the eternal, we become paralyzed by the immediate.
When our focus is on the world, we lose not only the world, but also heaven, too. But if our focus is on heaven, we get both.
There's a verse in the Book of John that says, "Do not let your hearts be troubled. In this world you will experience trouble, but fear not, I have overcome the world." Jesus said this so we would stop getting so hung up on things.
Steve believed all of that, to the core of his being.
Wow. That's some good stuff.
There's that infectious faith at work again.
ONE OF MY FAVORITE BOOKS is "Blue Like Jazz" by Donald Miller. He's a little quirky, and definitely not preachy, but he offers a story that illustrates this point very well.
But then he started hanging around really good, solid people who all loved jazz music. They felt fully alive while listening to it and had a sense of peace all over them.
Their love for jazz music was infectious. Soon, their love became his love.
And now, as a result, he loves jazz music.
That's the same way it should be with our spiritual lives. Like Steve, those who embrace God's leading in their lives live in virtual peace ... not only in life's circumstances, but also regarding death. That's an attractive quality, if you ask me. If I can't always understand why bad things have to happen to good people, I can at least surround myself with those who don't linger on that question, and instead just enjoy the music of life.
I'd love to live in total peace like that.
I was upset that a
girl I’d been dating was now interested in dating someone else. I’d never been through any of that before, and
it was awful. As luck would have it, Steve happened to be home from
college.
I was in the same class with Steve's younger brother Danny. A bunch of us always spent our free time in the Griffith basement, usually cracking jokes and playing spades. In a group where no one seemed to have a full name -- Jer, Bake, Daws, Griff, Kev, Wheels, Silk and Kirb -- he was Stev.
I was in the same class with Steve's younger brother Danny. A bunch of us always spent our free time in the Griffith basement, usually cracking jokes and playing spades. In a group where no one seemed to have a full name -- Jer, Bake, Daws, Griff, Kev, Wheels, Silk and Kirb -- he was Stev.
As a group, we may have been good students and had the promise of one day succeeding in the world, but you wouldn't have known it from the way we acted.
"The collective IQ of you guys is like 12," Steve would joke.
"Yeah, but you don't raise that level very much," someone else would quip (there was no reverence in this crowd, I tell you). And then a wrestling match would erupt and practically tear the entire house down. We were all a bunch of goofballs.
"The collective IQ of you guys is like 12," Steve would joke.
"Yeah, but you don't raise that level very much," someone else would quip (there was no reverence in this crowd, I tell you). And then a wrestling match would erupt and practically tear the entire house down. We were all a bunch of goofballs.
On this one particular night, Steve could sense my sadness. While the others snarfed up pizza and potato chips like they were on a prison break, I just played along quietly. During a lull in the card game, Steve quietly asked me to help him get something out of his car. It was really just his way of getting me outside to talk.
"Tell me what's up," he said. He looked genuinely interested.
"And did you really think this relationship was going to last forever?" he asked me later.
And then, "Kirb, is there a lesson in all of this that might make you better as a person?" he concluded, which was a fair question.
I remember feeling so grateful for what he did, because once we had finished talking, I felt so much better. The sun would come up in the morning. My personal worth did not depend on the attention of any one person. And God has a plan for all of our lives, which very often means the disappointments we experience are actually blessings in disguise.
Wow. This was good stuff. Thanks, Steve.
That's when something else really remarkable occurred, something I didn't see coming.
Suddenly, amazingly, Steve didn't seem like such a goofball anymore.
I knew he had a passion and a goal for one day being a pastor, and I knew that's what he was in college to study. But, in all honesty, I never thought he would become one.
Pastors weren't allowed to have fun, I thought. They weren't allowed to laugh and be funny ... and be real. In my Catholic upbringing, where the church building was a solemn sanctuary used only to recite creeds, God didn't have a sense of humor. So it never occurred to me to look at Steve (or Danny) and say, "You know, they're going to lead a church one day." No, no, no, no.
But my opinion changed that night, of Steve anyway (Danny had a ways to go to convince me) and it remained that way ever since. Steve had an infectious faith that gave him a personal peace, and I knew I needed what he had.
Even when he imitated a gorilla.
I GO TO CHURCH, BUT I don't always understand God. I believe He's there and wants to help me live a peaceful and purposeful life. But I don't understand why we must endure life's hardships just so we can learn a lesson or receive a blessing. I just don't get it. Why does a girl have to break up with me and practically kill me before I can learn how to handle a relationship better the second time around? Why not just give me clear instructions from the beginning?
And why do good people have to die young?
When I heard that Steve died suddenly the other night, while teaching a Bible study no less, I felt so bad. He was doing such meaningful work. He was a loving husband, a great father and, just recently, a very proud grandfather. Additionally, I stay in touch with Danny, who has always regarded Steve as not just an older brother, but his best friend. So Steve will be missed terribly by so many people. It's a tragic loss. It's heartache.
I have to admit, in the middle of my sadness, I began to get a little ticked off. I said to God, "Seriously, Charles Manson is still alive and Steve Griffith is gone? What's the deal?" I'm not sure my dialogue would be called a prayer exactly, but it was a conversation between me and God, and I read in a book one time that it might technically qualify.
There are so many things in life I'll never understand. Steve's sudden death is one of them. While I hear other people say it's time to give God all the glory and praise His holy name, there's a part of me that can't say that. Instead, I'm more like a defiant Tom Cruise in the movie, A Few Good Men: "I want answers! I want the truth!"
But let me tell you something. The more I sat and reminisced about Steve, the more another emotion came over me, an emotion I don't usually find when a young person dies.
I found peace. I found it because I realized Steve was at total peace, and had lived his life that way.
I should feel sadness for Susan and Jennifer and Griff and everyone else who loved Steve. And I do. They all had a plan of living many more years together. But Steve is now where he always longed to be. And there's a peace in that.
His faith was a gift, not only to himself ... but also to me. I can only assume it was also a gift to everyone else who loved him and knew him. Because of peace, Steve was not afraid to die. And because he had no fear in dying, he had personal peace in living. That's God's message for all of our lives.
When we lose sight of the eternal, we become paralyzed by the immediate.
When our focus is on the world, we lose not only the world, but also heaven, too. But if our focus is on heaven, we get both.
There's a verse in the Book of John that says, "Do not let your hearts be troubled. In this world you will experience trouble, but fear not, I have overcome the world." Jesus said this so we would stop getting so hung up on things.
Steve believed all of that, to the core of his being.
Wow. That's some good stuff.
There's that infectious faith at work again.
ONE OF MY FAVORITE BOOKS is "Blue Like Jazz" by Donald Miller. He's a little quirky, and definitely not preachy, but he offers a story that illustrates this point very well.
 |
He begins the book by saying he used to hate jazz music. He didn't understand it, so he just didn't like it.
But then he started hanging around really good, solid people who all loved jazz music. They felt fully alive while listening to it and had a sense of peace all over them.
Their love for jazz music was infectious. Soon, their love became his love.
And now, as a result, he loves jazz music.
That's the same way it should be with our spiritual lives. Like Steve, those who embrace God's leading in their lives live in virtual peace ... not only in life's circumstances, but also regarding death. That's an attractive quality, if you ask me. If I can't always understand why bad things have to happen to good people, I can at least surround myself with those who don't linger on that question, and instead just enjoy the music of life.
I'd love to live in total peace like that.
It's as if Steve is taking me outside to have another talk, offering just the right statement at just the right time.
"Kirb, you're like a small child in the eyes of God. So rest easy, don't worry and do what you do best. That's what you were made to do."
The sun will come up tomorrow. My personal happiness does not depend on whether the events in my life go my particular way; instead, it depends only on my choice to live peacefully. And one day we can all join Steve for another round of pizza and cards.
"The collective IQ of you guys is still around 12," Steve will joke.
And he will be correct. But I won't be in the mood for the zinger comeback, because I will remember -- forever -- the gift he shared with me. When the other guys start wrestling in a way that will tear the house down, I'll only have one thing to say:
"Yeah, but you make it so much higher," I'll say.
Peace out. Thanks, Steve. Until we meet again.
"Kirb, you're like a small child in the eyes of God. So rest easy, don't worry and do what you do best. That's what you were made to do."
The sun will come up tomorrow. My personal happiness does not depend on whether the events in my life go my particular way; instead, it depends only on my choice to live peacefully. And one day we can all join Steve for another round of pizza and cards.
"The collective IQ of you guys is still around 12," Steve will joke.
And he will be correct. But I won't be in the mood for the zinger comeback, because I will remember -- forever -- the gift he shared with me. When the other guys start wrestling in a way that will tear the house down, I'll only have one thing to say:
"Yeah, but you make it so much higher," I'll say.
Peace out. Thanks, Steve. Until we meet again.
.