On a recent Sunday night I returned from a trip and noticed that the customary sparkle in my wife's eyes had been replaced by sadness. “I have bad news,” she said, putting an arm around me. “Cordell is gone. Killed in a car accident.”
I slumped to the floor in disbelief. “No,” was all I could manage. My friend. One of my biggest encouragers. Gone. It couldn't be.
On Friday morning, I had talked with him.
“This is the happiest day of my life,” he had said. “I've given the family business over to my son. I'm ready for the next step.” A few hours later he had taken that step – into the presence of God.
The world slows down remarkably when a friend dies. Things you once thought important don't mean a thing. Things you worried about yesterday vanish today. Money won't buy what you want and sometimes you find yourself wishing for five more minutes to say what you didn't say when you know you should have.
Sometimes you can measure a man's influence by the volume of cigarette butts in the church parking lot at his funeral. There were plenty at this one. Fifteen hundred people don't show up to much in a small town, but they gathered to say goodbye today. Many were “pre-Christians,” as Cordell liked to call them. Dozens considered him their best friend. As a member of what the insurance world calls the Million Dollar Round Table, Cordell had worked hard and experienced much of what we call success. But he always seemed to have time for people. Teenagers in our town called him their mentor. He was my high school hockey coach, my cheerleader, and one of my biggest fans.
“Who makes a humourist laugh?” someone once asked me. “Guys like Cordell,” I replied. “My father was part Scotch,” he told me over a glass of Pepsi a week before his death, “part Ginger Ale.”
This morning as we left for the funeral, I told my sons I would pay them a dime for every adjective they wrote down that was used to described Cordell. Their pockets are jingling tonight. “He loved God and he loved baseball,” wrote my son Stephen. Comforter. Encourager. Servant. He was honest in business. He enjoyed life.
When my wife and I were first married, Cordell took us out for lunch hoping to sell us life insurance. And he told us that no matter what our decision the very best life insurance policy wasn't for sale. The assurance that we can live forever with Jesus by simple faith in God is the best present we'll ever receive and free for the asking. It is a message that has changed our lives.
Hours before Cordell's death I spent some time on the phone with one of my favorite authors, Philip Yancey. He was talking about people who have increased his faith and helped him survive hypocrisy in the church. We compared notes a little. Our backgrounds have similarities, yet both of us find ourselves drawn to the church like moths to a flame. Sometimes we experience the light. And sometimes we get burned. But certain ones along the way keep bringing us back. They are the tail waggers. The Cordells.
I wish for every church a Cordell. For every community and every home. If something blessed him, he said so. He couldn't sing to save his life, nor could he change a light bulb. But he could light up your face with a compliment. He looked past your faults and embellished your attributes. He used exclamation marks when he described you. I picture him walking around heaven now, patting angels between the wings, saying, “Wow! Good job! You're amazing! You've been doing this how many years?”
“Let's get together soon,” were Cordell's last words to me.
One day soon I'll keep that appointment. I can hardly wait.
