PASTOR DON FALKE BEATS THE DEVIL: My Favorite Moab Preacher —Jim Stiles (ZX#38)

A few weeks ago, I did something a bit out of character—I tried to have a conversation with God. Actually it was more of a monologue…okay maybe a rant, and I have no idea if He was listening or not. I’m not sure if God was even in the area. Or anywhere. I’m not trying to sound mocking or sacrilegious here; just honest. It’s been a rough year for a lot of people and Zephyr readers are at least vaguely aware of my own trials and tribulations in 2022. And now as we approach the “joyous holiday season,” many of us feel a growing dread for the weeks ahead.

So I was in New Mexico, on some property that is now solely mine. I recently bought the adjacent land and I’m trying to figure out what role it will play in my future. It was an impulsive purchase and I’m not sure it made a lick of sense. Vaguely I was having those “start a new life” kinds of feelings when the life you knew so well is gone. So I sat myself down under an ancient juniper tree, beside an amazing cluster of claret cup cactus that we discovered last year and really had it out with the Big Guy. Out loud even—I was miles from the nearest human and the coyotes barely noticed my presence. After an hour or so, I was starting to even bore myself. And I was growing hoarse. Finally I quit yelling. I waited for a sign. A vision. A few kind words. Something. Anything. All I could hear was the distant rumble of a freight train, a dozen or more miles away. I finally gave up and walked back to my car

In times of crisis, and heartbreak, we all seek our own paths to recovery and renewal. Some of us can turn to loving families and the unshakable solidarity and support that family is supposed to stand for. Others seek out kindred spirits, and good friends who we know will be there, no matter how rough it gets. I’ve had friends like that. Herb. Reuben. Bill. Gene. Others, They’re mostly gone now, but I am blessed to have been able to know what it feels like to have friends who understand the true meaning of the word.

Many others find comfort in their religious beliefs. They have a faith in God that I envy. I admit to being a cynical skeptic. The Doubting Thomas. I may be struck down by a bolt of lightning for typing this, but if by chance, when I’ve breathed my last, I find myself at the Pearly Gates, eyeball to eyeball, with the Great Thunderer, I feel like we both have a lot of explaining to do.

In any case, my chat with God seemed to go nowhere. Did He hear me at all? Does He care? Is He really there? I don’t know. I’m sort of lost. I’m not among the atheists either, and their arrogance— the idea that believing in Nothing somehow makes them superior— offers no comfort. At least to me.

I considered the whole miserable, bewildering situation and was about to give up the fight and open a bottle of Jim Beam. But then suddenly and purely on impulse, I decided to do the next best thing— I pulled out my cell phone, scanned the directory, and I called Pastor Don.

*****
For decades, Moab had three small, independently owned, greasy spoon cafes’— Milt’s Stop n’ Eat, the Canyonlands Cafe, and the Westerner Grill. I was a Westerner devotee and for years I shared a booth or one of the eight counter stools with friends and foes alike—consequently some foes eventually became friends. And vice versa. But in the late 80s, all three either went belly up, or changed management to the point where they’d lost their souls–not to mention a decline in quality matched only by their rise in prices. In any case, all of us “regulars” sought other venues.

But at the same time a new diner had opened. Actually it was the latest incarnation of a small cafe that had sat on the corner of Main Street and Kane Creek Drive for decades. Its most recent incarnation had been as a chicken in a basket carry-out, but for many years it had mostly stayed empty. But now my Locust Lane neighbors, Debbie and Carl Rappe, bought the building, did some renovations and re-opened as the “Main Street Broiler.” A few of us— river runners, seasonal rangers, other ne’er do wells like my best friend, county attorney Bill Benge, made the Broiler their new home base. The burgers were excellent, their breakfasts unequaled. Debbie Rappe always remembered that I only liked my coffee in a cup with a white interior and when I ordered hot cakes, she always made a smiley face out of pats of butter…Debbie Rappe knew how to make us happy.

We also learned that Debbie had started going to the local Baptist Church—there was a new preacher in town and she even encouraged us to attend. Bill and I, both hopeless cynics and sinners, politely declined. But there’s that saying: “If Mohammed won’t come to the mountain…” (you know the rest). So one day at noon, Bill and I were at the Broiler, in one of its booths, discussing the world situation and waiting for our jalapeno cheese burgers.

A man of middle age, height and size walked through the front door, stopped, and looked around, as if scanning and evaluating the place and its human cargo. There was a rough-hewn rural ambience to the man, but his piercing blue-eyed glare told us not to underestimate him. The man caught our stare, and then he lumbered over to our table. We had no idea what he wanted. His poker face revealed nothing until the moment he was standing over us. Suddenly his stoic face broke into the widest of grins; he extended his hand and said in the most distinctive East Texas drawl any man can imagine, “Hi Fellas…I’m Pastor Don Falke. I’m new here in town and I noticed all the other tables were occupied. Would you all mind if I joined you?”

Bill and I, both being fairly anti-social and often not even that thrilled with each other’s company, looked up at the Pastor reluctantly; we shrugged and finally Bill said, “No, I guess not. Have a seat.” Neither Bill nor I had the slightest idea that we were about to become what Pastor Don would call his “Other Congregation.” The Main Street Broiler Congregation of Ne’er Do Wells and Skeptical Cynics.

Don squeezed in beside me and reintroduced himself, shaking hands all around. “Yeah Bro…I’m Don Falke. I’ve only been here a few weeks but I’ve been wanting to try out Debbie’s cuisine since we got here. My wife Judy and I and our two kids are all Texas born and raised, but we’re happy to be here.”

He was so relaxed and casual with us — you’d think we’d all grown up together — that we were immediately drawn to the man. I wouldn’t call it ‘charisma.” It was something else unidentifiable at the time. Later I’d come to call it “Pastor Don-ism.” Despite his charming demeanor, he was still at heart, a Baptist minister, and it didn’t take long for Don to confront us with some of the more controversial moral and ethical issues of the day (they still are). Bill and I both saw it coming…

“So fellas…what do you think about abortion?”

Bill and I, both unenthusiastic liberals at the time, but liberal leaning all the same, we said we were “pro-choice,” but that it wasn’t a decision to be made lightly. Bill was always smarter than me, avoided hopeless arguments when possible, and said nothing. Bill was a lawyer–- he just prosecuted them. But I picked up the sword and tried to explain my point of view.

For starters, as a man, I didn’t feel I had the right to make that decision either way. But I acknowledged that, so far at least, women can’t find themselves in that condition without us. But more than that, I had been a social worker in Kentucky before I moved West. It was a heartbreaking job— we received referrals from school teachers, and parents. Sometimes it was a health issue that was needed. Or a trip to the surplus food bank. On other occasions it was a behavioral problem. Or abuse. I had never seen so many unwanted children, who seemed destined to have the same future as their parents. The abuse was shocking and often there was very little we could do about it. It still infuriates me when I recall a woman holding up her three day old baby, a cigarette hanging out of her mouth saying, “Little one, you just increased my welfare check by $85 a month.” I still wonder about that little baby.

Don furrowed his brow and put his hands on the table. “I agree with you 100%, Brother Jim. That’s why I don’t have any more use for Republicans than I do the Democrats. Liberals…Conservatives…they’re all worthless.”

We were taken aback. I had expected a flurry of self-righteous shaming. But he said, “The way I look at it, the Democrats want the easiest way out of dealing with the situation. But the Republicans will fight like the Devil to defend the rights of the unborn child…right up to the moment they pop out of the womb and into the world. After that, the Republicans could care less. It’s a bad situation.”

Don shook his head. “I don’t have the slightest idea what the perfect solution is. But the problem is, you don’t know that every life…what you call an unwanted child… is going to wind up like that. The challenges they face may make them stronger.”

“Or they may not,” I said.

Don smiled slightly, “So Brother Jim, what we have here is me praying for the best outcome, and you assuming the worst.”

I guess that’s probably right.” I nodded.

“So…we’re both guessing in a way. But for the record, I’m pro-life. It’s wrong to take a life, no matter what. I have to believe we can find better ways to deal with this tragedy. But what you’re saying Brother Jim is also true. I don’t know…” His voice trailed off. The table grew quiet.

Finally, Don said, “So I hear the burgers are pretty good here. What else do you recommend?” It was the beginning of a 35 year friendship. It wasn’t necessary for us to always agree with each other. What mattered was our mutual respect and friendship. That’s the way it’s been ever since. With Don and his remarkable wife Judy, it’s the kind of friendship that can endure years without any contact, and then, when the long absence ends, it’s as if we were never apart. Anyone reading this knows exactly what I mean.

*****
For the next five years, we Broiler People were unofficial members of Pastor Don’s “Other Congregation.” Don “held services” at the Broiler on a regular basis. “You Boys are a challenge to me…It keeps my life interesting. My initiation with Pastor Don coincided with my founding of The Zephyr and Don even contributed a few stories for the Zephyr readership, including my favorite, “Pastor Don Forgives President Clinton.”

He even submitted some of his poetry; it may be the only time in 34 years that I published anyone’s poems. Everyone thinks they’re a poet if they can be esoteric enough, and his poetry page did indeed cause a flurry of submissions. I decided I needed to forgive Don for creating such a nightmare, but as he later pointed out, “You need to forgive yourself Brother Jim. I didn’t come begging to be in your rag. But the Lord blesses you anyway.”

Don’s wife Judy worked in the Grand County Clerk’s office. Thirty years ago, The Zephyr was a monthly and I actually reported local stories. Consequently I was often at the courthouse, bugging County Clerk Fran Townsend, who was also the organist in Don’s choir, and Judy for information. They endured me with a smile but rarely shared political secrets. When I realized Judy was Don’s wife, I laughed and said, “How do you put up with that guy?” Judy smiled and replied, “The same way you do…you just love the guy.”

*****

Then in 1993, the Falkes announced they were leaving Moab. Don had accepted a gig as pastor at the First Baptist Church of Pineland, Texas. The Broiler Congregation actually attended his last Moab service. We feared our mere presence might cause lightning to strike or the roof to collapse. I even videotaped parts of his farewell

I thought I’d probably never see Don and Judy again, but somehow I occasionally found myself headed to East Texas. Once, many years ago, he and I and his boy Damon took a long drive through southern Louisiana in search of Cajun food. I’d traveled to Austin to visit an ex-girlfriend. She was in graduate school now, and for some reason I thought we could rekindle our relationship, despite the distance. When she politely declined, I was crushed. I looked at my map and realized Pineland was just a few hours away. So I paid Don and Judy a visit and told them my sad story, the first of many. Don patted me on the back and said, “Boy, there’s only one thing that can cure you and your condition….I recommend a big ol’ bowl of gumbo. Or maybe several.” The next day we drove, we talked and we ate. We headed for Louisiana and Cajun Country. We visited the Tabasco plant and the Evangeline Tree. We ate gumbo.

During the long hours of driving between gumbo, I asked how he got into the preaching business. I asked him if he’d been hit by a revelation. Don chuckled and decided to take the time to explain his historic turn to God. Since we rehashed his story just a few weeks ago, I think I can fairly put his story in quotes. According to Pastor Don….

“It was never like I had some kind of mystical conversion. No vision of Jesus hovering over me…I always believed in God. I just didn’t want to be bothered by Him. I figured, what I did was none of God’s business. And the idea of me being a preacher had not even occurred to me. A crazy notion, even for God…

“I was a mess as a kid. I think I went to school drunk almost every day from the time I was in the sixth grade. I could always find somebody older to get me some liquor. I was a vodka boy. The school didn’t know what to do with me, so they just kept passing me along to the next grade. When I graduated from high school, I could read at about the six grade level.

“Boys like me always ended up in shop classes. They figured I’d never amount to much. I remember I took metal shop classes, again and again, but the teacher could tell I was under the influence, so he wouldn’t let me get anywhere near the machinery. He was afraid I’d cut my arm off or something. Can you imagine that? I graduated from high school and I didnt even know how to run a jigsaw?”

Don’s drinking got so bad that he could barely recall a time when he was sober. One night he and a buddy were driving along an irrigation canal, one deep enough to be lost forever in. Don stumbled out of their truck, fell into the canal; and sank like a chunk of limestone. He even remembers sitting there on the wash bottom, under five feet of water and thinking, ‘so this is how it ends.’ He wasn’t even upset. It was almost as if he’d seen it coming.

But not quite yet.

It was the middle of the night, no moon. Pitch black out. Don’s pal was as drunk as him, maybe worse. But the other boy waded to the edge of the canal and plunged his hand into the water, screaming for Don. He was on the verge of passing out himself and the thought must have occurred to him — how odd it would be to find two seventeen year old boys drowned side-by-side in an irrigation ditch?

Just then, he felt a hank of hair. Don always had a good head of hair. Still does. The boy grabbed the top of Don’s scalp and pulled him out, to the edge of the canal. They both lay there laughing and crying and sick as dogs. They made their way home and Don snuck into his room. He still couldn’t stop sobbing. It was at that moment, the low point of his life, that he was sure God said, “I want you to be a preacher.”

(NOTE: The reader needs to understand that when Don tells me this story, and I’ve heard it twice now, he never tries to portray himself as a person “chosen by God,” or even tries to add extra drama to the moment. He might as well be saying the manager at the 7-11 told him. But Don always explains that it didn’t seem out of the ordinary because he always believed that God was there. It was just that he didn’t want to deal with Him)

”It was MY Life, I had figured, and so when God told me to preach I told Him, ‘Look this is a really bad idea. I can barely read. I don’t even like people!’” Don hollered. “‘So when I fail at this, this is going to be on you. I take the blame for the booze, but you can live with this one.’”

****
Don enrolled in East Baptist College in Marshall, Texas, though he was bewildered that they’d even accept him. Soon Don was teaching and counseling at youth camps and various revivals across East Texas. It was at one of those youth camps that he met another counselor, a pretty young blonde woman from Beaumont. Though Pastor Don can be stubborn about it, and sometimes fails to give credit where it’s due, meeting and marrying Judy was as much of a miracle for Don as his survival in the irrigation ditch. They have been a team working together for more than half a century. The last time we talked, he grudgingly acknowledged, “That woman IS my better half. I know it.”

But just as the Falkes were settling into married life, Don got a special letter from his draft board. He was invited to join the U.S. Army for the next two years. This was 1969, and near the height of the Vietnam War; they both assumed he’d be shipped overseas. But Don didn’t fit the soldier mold and once again, they really didn’t know what to do with him. He insists he spent more time on KP duty than any living American. None of the brass could imagine Don as a soldier. He was caught wearing wingtip shoes with his uniform—he didn’t think they’d notice — finally Don was court martialed for going to visit Judy; she worked at Sears and Private Falke strolled into the store, while on duty and wearing his fatigues. Apparently a court martial-able offense

Don and Judy waited nervously for the trial to begin or at least for the process to move forward. But this kind of FUBAR worked in Don’s favor. While he awaited his punishment, the charges got lost in the Army bureaucracy. They couldn’t just keep him locked up. Finally someone noticed he had been enrolled at East Baptist so they assigned him to the chaplain’s office.

Don and his new boss didn’t have much to say to each other and, in fact, the chaplain was away much of the time. Attendance at Sunday services was downright pathetic and Don felt a calling in this matter. He decided to use his own unconventional talents to improve the situation. The chaplain always left a couple extra uniforms at the army base office and both men were about the same size. Don may have not considered the fact that impersonating an officer was an offense far worse than the charges he was already facing. But Don looked at it differently—he felt comfortable with the notion that he was doing the Lord’s work, in a way that may not have been previously considered.

So “Chaplain Don” in full field uniform, started walking the base, watching the soldiers carefully, searching for any signs of behavior unbecoming a soldier. He found plenty. Whatever it was—shirt not tucked properly, shoe laces too loose, unshaved face, failure to salute an officer (him!). Everytime he caught a soldier failing to live up to the high standards of the U.S. Army, not to mention God Himself, Don gave the soldier a good scolding. And he advised these men that the only way any of them could seek redemption was by regularly attending the Sunday services at the base chapel. Within a couple weeks, the chapel was packed and the chaplain was stunned. The chaplain said, “I feel like the Lord himself has somehow reached out to these men and brought them to me.” Don just smiled.

The trial for Don’s court martial never happened and incredibly, in 1970, he received an honorable discharge. The military and Don were both glad to be rid of each other. That same year, Don was assigned his first pastorship in Natchez, Texas. His unusual style has served him well ever since.


*****
Now jumping ahead a few years, it was hard for Don and Judy to leave Moab; they had touched the lives of so many people, and in so many ways. But Pineland was closer to home and they both felt it was important to be closer to family. Two years before we made our Gumbo Marathon tour of Louisiana, I had showed up unexpectedly, just months after their Moab farewell. I had gone to Belize that winter; when I returned, I landed in Houston, and rather than flying straight home, I rented a car and took the four hour drive to see them. They were both shocked for me, of all people, to appear on their Texas doorstep. I was the first of either Moab “congregation” to pay them a visit. Pineland is indeed in the midst of massive pine forests. It was pouring down rain and after coffee with Judy, Don suggested that he and I take a drive. I could tell he seemed restless. He asked me about Belize and asked to be caught up on the latest Moab gossip.

Then I asked about his new duties. How is life being pastor of the First Baptist Church of Pineland, Texas. “Well, Brother Jim…Don’t get me wrong. I love these people. They’re like family to me.”

He paused for a moment. “But I gotta tell you, there’s really only two things I need to do here…When they’re alive I tell them they’re all going to Hell. And when their loved ones die, I tell their families that they all went to Heaven. Sometimes I miss my Broiler Congregation, just for the arguing. Nobody argues with me around here. I miss that.”

I hung around with the Falkes for a couple days. On Monday morning I went with Pastor Don as he made his morning rounds. One of his regular stops was the local nursing home. There’s no avoiding the truth that no matter how hard the family and staff try to create a comfortable and loving atmosphere, it’s a sad and depressing place. It’s the last stop and all the residents know it. They’re all just waiting to die. But when Pastor Don walked in the door I saw a few eyes light up, and smiles cross their faces. As I’ve noted, Don has an unorthodox approach to his ministry, and even his interaction with other people. Sometimes one can wonder if his slightly weird sense of humor will be taken the wrong way. We were walking down a long dreary fluorescent lighted hallway, as sterile and cold as one can imagine. We were on our way to the outside patio to visit some old fellows that have come to look eagerly for Don’s regular visits.

“What are we going to do with these guys?” I asked Don.

“Whittle,” he replied. “Did You bring your whittlin’ knife?”

I chuckled. “Well…no, I guess I forgot my whittling knife. I’ll just have to be an observer. What is it you whittle? I mean, are you trying to carve little wooden critters or something?”

Don shrugged. “Nah…we just whittle. We have our sticks and we just whittle until there’s nothing left. Then we get another stick and whittle some more. It helps pass the time. In fact, it’s downright soothing.” When they’re done the floor was covered with wood shavings…good firestarter.

We were half way down the hall when we encountered a tiny ancient woman in a wheelchair. She looked lost and tired and sad. I tried to imagine her as a young woman decades ago, and couldn’t do it. In her lap was a multi-colored Afghan throw. But it was all tangled up in her lap and she was trying, with great difficulty, with her arthritic fingers, to pull it all apart.

Don saw her problem and took the Afghan from her lap. Pastor Don shook it out, straightened the corners, and spread it across her legs. “There!” Don said. “How’s that? Is that better?”

She looked up at Don and seemed more annoyed than pleased. Don looked back. And then he smiled. A light came on — he said, “You know darlin’. That was probably a mistake for me to have done that…letting you untangle that blanket on your own would have kept you busy until noon!”

I instinctively flinched, thinking that was a terrible comment. But I looked at the little lady and she was laughing hysterically. She put her hand out to Don and he squeezed it. For the first time, I could see the sparkle in her eyes and could imagine her as a young girl after all.

*****

A few years later, I heard that Don and Judy had left Pineland and taken on a church in Port Arthur, Texas on the Gulf Coast. At the time it was one of the most violent, crime-ridden cities in the state and it’s still a difficult and dangerous place to live. I didn’t see them during any of the years that he was actively involved in that community, but I remembered his long ago comments about the lack of a challenge he had faced in other communities. It was as if he was longing to really put himself at Ground Zero where Hell was truly at the doorstep, and see if he and Judy could make a difference. They spent five years in Port Arthur. Though it was difficult and even terrifying at times for them, Don still insists they were his most rewarding years. All he’ll say is, “I think we did some good down there.”

But it could be rough. Once they found a dead body in their backyard. Yet another murder. Sometimes Don had to resort to humor to get them through it. Once he was describing the Port Arthur incident to me as Judy listened in. Suddenly Don said, “You know, as I recall, there was another time when I was with Judy and we found a dead body then too.”

Don looked at me and at Judy and said, “Brother Jim…You don’t think Judy coulda done that do you? Could she be a killer and I don’t know it?”

“DON!!!!” Judy screamed. “What in the WORLD are you talking about? Jim, he is CRAZY! Sometimes I can’t believe I am married to this man!”

“Well,” Pastor Don replied. “How do you think I feel? Knowing I might be married to a serial killer? Really Miss Judy. You scare me at times.”

In 2010 Don and Judy came back to Pineland and that’s where I caught up with him again.

(PLEASE NOTE: Most of you know that Tonya and I divorced this past year, but we shared many happy times and adventures, and I cannot simply delete her memory from the last 12 years of my life. The following “Pastor Don and Judy” stories include both of us. And I include them here because it’s what happened. It’s not my intent to make anyone, including the readers or even Tonya uncomfortable. I live with my past every day. It’s how I’m wired.)

In 2009 I met Tonya Morton and a year later we decided to get married. I had told her stories about Don and Judy and we both agreed that we’d like Don to preside over our wedding. But Tonya had never met them, so we made a drive to Pineland in July 2011, and then again, the following winter. They were memorable visits, especially our second. The first visit was just an introduction. After knowing me for so long, Don and Judy wanted to meet the bride-to-be. They gave us both their blessing and a few months later, Pastor Don presided over our wedding in a little chapel next to a cemetery. It was perfect.

The following February, we traveled again to Pineland. We arrived just in time for the First Baptist Church’s Annual Roadkill Potluck Supper. I asked Don if they were kidding and he said, “Look at the menu, Brother Jim…ever had fried Squirrel? Racoon? Wild pig? ” He wasn’t kidding. “I don’t recommend the possum though…it can be a little stringy.”

Sure enough, that evening the entire congregation turned out, with fry pans and casserole dishes in hand. We ate sparingly. But for the most part, the church members chewed heartily and seemed to enjoy themselves. If there was a surreal moment to the event, it was when Don’s scholarly son Damon, an English literature scholar and an author/poet in his own right, presented a lecture of sorts to the assembled crowd. But it might have been a bit too scholarly and esoteric. Damon offered a very complicated analysis of 16th Century literature, or was it 17th? I can’t remember, and to be honest he was talking way over my head too. Pastor Don was sitting beside me and I watched him for a moment to see if he was following his son’s presentation. There was a twinkle in his eye.

Finally Don caught my gaze and smiled. “My boy Damon is a genius, for sure.” He paused. “And he knows his English literature frontwards and backwards….but he may have picked the wrong audience tonight. These people came here to eat squirrel.”

The next day, Don decided to show us Louisiana. Not part of it. Almost ALL of it. I got the feeling that Don’s perception of Time is different from the rest of us. He had so much to show us and he planned for us to see everything. First we drove to the north of the state and down a little highway past Arcadia, to the very place where Bonnie and Clyde were shot to death by Texas Ranger Frank Hamer and Company. There’s a monument there, though it’s been pretty shot up itself. He insisted we pose and since neither of us was armed, he handed us umbrellas as a substitute. I had to agree, we looked pretty fierce. He insisted we visit the Bonnie and Clyde Museum when we came back through Arcadia, where Hamer and his posse had brought their bullet-riddled bodies.

From there, we traveled south on Interstate 49, the full length of Louisiana, past Lafayette, to St. Martinville, on Bayou Teche and the loveliest Bed and Breakfast I have ever stayed at. Our elegant hostess met us at the door. I wish I could have recorded her voice and the moment she served us breakfast the next day. She was the most classic Southern Belle, in all the right ways, that one can even begin to imagine. But we also ate way too much Cajun food and I was Gumbo-ed out for several years. We made our way back to Pineland via Port Arthur, where Don showed us the desolate downtown area, the burned out buildings, their old church, and their home…and yes, even where “the body” was found.

The wrongly accused Judy was awaiting our return. When we left the next morning, it never occurred to me that years would pass before we would all be together again. But we would be. One more time.

*****

We had not seen the Falkes in years. Since the last visit, Don and Judy had moved back to Moab; they returned to the Community Church and a delighted congregation. They stayed six years before finally deciding to retire. In 2017 they bought a home in Grand Junction, and managed to stay in touch with many of their nearby Moab friends. We stopped by in September 2021, on our way home from a trip to Utah and New Mexico. Judy hadn’t changed a bit. She was just as happy and enthusiastic as ever, but I had to admit, I was worried about Don. He was quieter, more withdrawn. Almost detached. It seemed as if some of the spark had left him.

Three months later, came the divorce and all the other “stuff,” and my entire life changed. For months I was too embarrassed to try and call Judy or Don. We had both given Pastor Don the credit for presiding over our wedding.

Finally this summer, I called Judy. She was sweet and kind as always, but she stunned me when I learned that Don had almost died a few months earlier. I had been in touch with their son in the spring but Don’s health was never mentioned. Judy told me that Don had developed a prostate infection that kept getting worse, but Don refused to see a doctor. Finally it became septic and he was dying from blood poisoning. Finally, Judy said enough was enough; she called an ambulance and he was transported to St. Mary’s ICU. For days, his blood pressure was at critically low levels. Doctors were running out of options. One experimental procedure was proposed and Don emphatically said, “No. If it’s my time, it’s my time.”

The doctors gave up. Judy gave up. It was Don’s choice. Six hours later, he started getting better. Nobody had a clue why. He came home a week later and has been improving ever since. Still, I wondered if he could ever get back to his old self. A couple weeks ago, I called Judy again, and told her about my plan to write a story about them, but I needed to be reminded of some details. It had been a while. Judy said, “Well Jim, I have a surprise for you…why don’t you just ask Don. He’s right here.”

I waited a moment. And then I heard that familiar voice. “Brother Jim! How the heck are you? What’s this about you falling down the stairs?” We talked for an hour and a half. It was like old times. The spark is still there. For now at least, Pastor Don may not have beat the devil, but he sure as hell is giving him a run for his money.

Jim Stiles is publisher of The Zephyr, since 1989

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