"A Big Heart," a Short Narrative Biography of a Man I Never Really Knew

In the previous post, I mentioned that my Uncle Danny died. I find it unfortunate to me that I was never afforded the opportunity to get to know the man well. All I remember are the childhood memories of hunting for arrowheads in the Texas Hill Country or playing baseball in the yard or always going to my cousins' house that never really seemed to be quite finished with missing doors and drywall. I remember a gruff carpenter with a lip full of snuff, often exiled in his workshop. Yes, a carpenter, and a good one at that. But I never actually knew the man. I can only regret that I was just a kid at the time. I haven't seen my uncle in over fifteen years and my only hope is that I will see him again someday in a place that has eased his pain and given him great peaceful rejoicing in its stead.

Through the eyes of an onlooker whose desire it was to know the man even just a little, the service yesterday was moving and inspirational, a true memorial and celebration of the life of a man with a "big heart," as friends closest to him would repeatedly describe. Even though I am unable to speak of the man from personal experience, it was good to hear others. His youngest son, my cousin Joe, described to the crowd of mishmashed souls on varied journeys in life, that his father was a man that deeply cared for people, his family in particular. My mother then rose to the podium to describe a few things that only Danny would do in his own unique way before reading a letter from another uncle of mine who wasn't able to be there. My Uncle Kevin described Danny's friendship as an everlasting bond that would always beckon his visit when traveling south to Texas. Then ensued a flood of tears from friends who will miss this man who had such a big heart despite his own personal demons about which he would tell others "you can't understand." "He always had a smile and a hug for me," a friend would say. Another chimed in, "We would just sit and talk for hours and he would tell me how proud of his kids he was, while asking me about mine." The pastor himself, who had known Danny for more than a decade, told a story about one rainy morning in which a van full of free lunches were to be handed out down the street. Danny ran up to grab a lunch for himself and a blanket not for himself but for another lady who was getting likewise soaked in the downpour. This was typical with Danny, always sharing of himself and his time so that others would feel loved. The stories continued for a while longer, from more friends for whom Danny was one of the few friends they could really talk to, to family members who had unique memories of Danny from previous years, to more recent memories from family members, to other friends who only had tears to offer in the place of words. The man will be well missed. From these stories, I am thankful that I can miss him well also.

In addition to the vastness of his heart and his willingness to show love to so many people, I found, in the stories told, that a very real sense of humility was a big part of this man's life. The life that he lived, the demons that he fought and the lifestyle that he lived, were very real humbling experiences that seemed to transform Danny into someone who truly appreciated the beautiful things that he did have, for their own sake. "A gift," he once said, "are the hands that God gave me to make beautiful things." In the likeness of the greatest man who ever walked the earth, Danny carved masterpieces from wood and stone. Arrowheads, moldings in Louisiana plantation mansions, simple boxes for baseball card collections, houses that would soon become homes, and any number of other carvings became the expression of an inward beauty that few who really knew him could ignore. When asked how he was doing, Danny would often reflect, "Progress but not perfection," while clinging to a mustard seed-sized faith in God that he had hoped would ease his heart along the journey. He seemed to always have this sort of tension in his life: a battle not against flesh and blood...

The debate between belief and unbelief is by no means a debate between himself who believes and another who disbelieves. It is also in large part a debate within himself, who both believes and disbelieves, and who must ever continue to pray humbly, 'Lord, I believe; help me in my unbelief.'"
-John Baillie

To put it differently in the context of the grace of God that enables a humble faith like this, consider the following four line poem by Pastor John Piper:

"Not grace to bar what is not bliss,
Nor flight from all distress, but this:
The grace that orders our trouble and pain,
And then, in the darkness, is there to sustain."

This may very well be the essence of a life like Danny's. Although there was no shortage of distress and trouble, yet through the evidence of his open and loving heart, it is perhaps God's enduring grace that sustained him throughout, even until the end.

Through the hearing of all of these stories from friends and family, a piecewise biography of this man has served him well, for although his existence could have disappeared into an obscure dark place in this harsh world, it certainly did not. It cannot. Instead, the heartfelt outpourings of fondness and affection for this man enlivened and celebrated his existence for all who cared about him to see. It is all the more clear to me how the psalmist felt when he wrote, "Those who sow in tears will reap a harvest of joy."

For Daniel Jandle:
May you rest in true peace, our friend, absent from all anguish and pain and sorrow. A life celebrated is a life well lived. May your progress now bear the fruit of perfection.