And then there are some, a very special few, who though they are gone, the flame burns bright and strong, the memories clear, the thoughts lingering, the impact of who they were still affecting your life and that of those around you.
That is my friend, Jeff.
U.S. Army Sgt. Jeffrey Ross Shaver.
I met Jeff at Life Center in Spokane. We became friends, and along with Dale Raschko, we were a tight knit group of three who met constantly, always loved each other's company, who shared each other's lives and knew each other's parents and the day-to-day, week-by-week struggles of each other and our relationships. We dreamt of becoming old together, being the old men who sit in lawn chairs, sharing a drink, rehashing old memories, enjoying each other's company, and eagerly awaiting the next bit of mayhem and memories en route.
There was a mission trip coming up, to the island of Roatan in Honduras. We were all three going to go, experiencing that special bond that happens when serving together in close quarters for a time. There was an uncertainty for Dale and I. A deadline was approaching. We met and prayed, took an evening to only seek God on the matter, to await an answer on which of us was supposed to go. We regrouped and revealed our answers.
"I am excited! I am definitely going," was Jeff's reply. "What about you guys?"
Dale and I look at each other, an unsure glance, and instantly we both felt what each other had heard.
"I heard no. I don't feel that I am supposed to go," was my reply.
Dale concurred. "I feel the same. I heard a no. I'm sure of it."
We see Jeff's countenance change. "Well then, I won't go. I'll only go if you both go."
"Jeff, no. You should go. You need to go. We feel that you are supposed to go."
And what followed was a conversation of Dale and I reassuring Jeff that even though we weren't going, that he should. His answer was "yes". A resounding "Yes!" And we all heard it. It was long. It was tiring. Jeff was truly upset that we weren't going to be able to go.
Jeff went. He saw. He conquered. And I was so happy for him. I knew that not going would take me out of that group of memories, that when that bunch of great people came back home, that I would not have shared that experience with them; that I would be left behind, so to speak. But that was okay. Jeff grew. He saw the plight of others. He fulfilled his mission. I was proud.
We served together at Life Center, helping in the college group, being generally crazy, and having the time of our lives.
The time frame is not exactly clear to me, but eventually Jeff and Dale decided to go into the army together. They went in on the buddy system, experiencing boot camp and training together, both becoming medics in the Washington National Guard. They both excelled. They were strong. They were both impressive athletes, and that experience and conditioning helped them breeze through, as it seemed to me.
Jeff and I are sharing an apartment, as either Jeff and I or Dale and Jeff have been rooming on and off for the last few years. Dale is now married, sharing his life with his beautiful bride, Christina. Jeff and his dad are making attempts to patch up relations after years of being apart.
Somewhere in there, through my personal flounderings, I take a job at a school in Japan. I vaguely remember breaking the news to Jeff. I knew that I was supposed to go. I do remember he wasn't happy. There was the remainder of the lease. I tell Jeff not to worry. I will cover it. But it wasn't the money. He didn't care about that. He didn't want me to go, didn't want to lose that camaraderie. It was painful to him.
One thing mattered to Jeff: relationships.
Well, maybe two: relationships and helping people.
I am in Japan, teaching little Japanese munchkins how not to screw up the English language too badly. I come back to the States on vacation with my new wife, and we meet Jeff in Issaquah. We shake hands, hug, make introductions, and slowly we start to repatriate into each other's lives. He tells me of his dream to build a brewery, a place that he can be with all his friends, sitting, chatting, and enjoying life together. He tells me of his dream to be a search and rescue helicopter pilot, and how he's going to school for that. He gives us a wedding gift. A beautiful photo frame, ornate and intricate in design, one that held our wedding photo for ten years. The memory of the frame and the giver goes on in my memory, even though the marriage pictured in the frame has now disintegrated into a broken, messy, nightmare of hurtful memories and emotional pain.
I am back in Japan, and I get a call from Dale.
"We've been called up. We're going to Iraq."
I don't tell them, but I go white on the other end of the phone. There is a premonition, a feeling.
One of them is not coming back.
But I don't know which one.
On and off again I get calls from Iraq, Jeff or Dale letting me know that they are okay, that the Green Zone only gets mortared on a slightly regular basis, and that the cigars and company are great. Dale is out of the Green Zone regularly on missions, while Jeff stays behind, working inside. Jeff becomes restless, wanting to go outside the walls, to see the people, to help them.
He finally gets his chance. He rolls out of town on a humanitarian mission, helping those who they can help in medical need. They head back into Baghdad, back to safety, back to the Green Zone. One of the soldiers recalled looking up at Jeff and seeing him sitting there, staring off into the distance, a big grin on his face, a smile of joy, a satisfaction in his soul.
And then he's gone.
A roadside bomb altering the lives of all in the vicinity, and the lives of all those who knew him around the world, cutting short the life of a man engaged to be married to a beautiful woman. A friend to so many. A best friend to quite a few. A true soul mate to me.
My friend Brian lets me know in an email what has happened. I make arrangements to fly home for the memorial, a whirlwind trip of four days and 11,000 miles. I see his mom and family. I don't know what to say. There are no words.
I don't know why God chooses to take people when He does. But I have faith. I believe that God knows better than I. I believe that Jeff leaves a legacy. And I believe that Jeff is enjoying the best relationship of all, the one with our Creator.
Nine years later, the flame of Jeff still burns in my life.
Love and Live with Passion.
And so, even with life in ever-changing flux around me, I resolve to remember Jeff in that way. To spend my life loving and living with passion. To serve my God loving and living with passion. To do the things that I love to do, and that I live to do, with passion.
Because that's what Jeff did. No matter what, he was going to do what he put his mind to, no matter how hard it was, no matter who told him he couldn't do it, no matter the issues he had in his life. He loved and lived with passion.
I think that's a great example to follow.
