I had a friend in high school. His name was Jeff. My friendship with Jeff was quite unusual, and perhaps while I considered Jeff a friend — he might have said differently. Jeff was the scariest guy in our school, and while I can’t remember for sure; I don’t think anyone else in the whole school would have called Jeff — friend.
He was big… he was mean… he came from a very difficult (I would say today with my understanding) abusive home. He smoked… bragged about his alcohol consumption and used pot regularly. His language was abhorrent, his clothing old, smelly and rarely clean. His very disposition caused people to give him a wide-birth. Even the teachers were afraid of Jeff. I once saw Jeff beat another student unconscious in the school parking lot over some disagreement or another.
I honestly don’t know how our friendship formed… I suppose most 9th graders don’t consider those things at the time. I was tiny (believe it or not), timid and shy. He was brazen, angry and violent. I was a goody church kid. He was rough, crass and vulgar. We did have wood shop together in 9th and 10th grade, and then for our last two years of high school we were two of just three guys who assisted our shop teacher by helping 9th graders in shop class with their projects — so we spent time together. My mom was his bus driver. Now, I know those of you who know my mom see her as a sweet, kind lady (which she is), but she ruled her school bus with an iron rod, and for much of her time driving at my school she had the kids from the “difficult” part of town.
You know, I think maybe my mom and I were the only ones who were not afraid of Jeff. When he acted inappropriately on the bus, she smacked him down, hard (Uh— proverbially). He once commented to me that he respected my mom, and while I can’t remember the exact words he used, I now realize today that perhaps Jeff just wanted an adult to care about him enough to call out his bad behavior. Just 5 years after graduation Jeff was killed riding his motorcycle while high.
My Christian life was pretty erratic in high school — I was either hot for Christ or cold… and honestly, more cold than hot. While I wasn’t a bad kid, not many of my fellow students would have named me “Christian” because of how I lived my life. I guess I was just quiet and shy about Jesus… and I was good with that because it was easier — safer.
Someone once asked me if I could go back in time and tell myself something to change about my life, what would that be? I would tell teenage Steve to be a bold witness for Jesus. Seriously. That is what I would change.
I think about Jeff from time to time. And when I do, I am forced to confront the shame that I never once mentioned Jesus to him. Not. Once. Just how many people who knew Jesus were part of Jeff’s life? I’m guessing not many. Perhaps I was the one God wanted to use.
Regrets are sometimes hard to live with — and I know none of us are perfect and we all make mistakes and experience remorse over them — but I will be transparent with you… Jeff… and my lack of witness… still stings deeply today — 42 years later.
You know, we all have people who cross our lives who do not know Jesus as Lord and Savior, and perhaps in some of those circumstances; we are the one God seeks to use to share the Gospel story of God’s love. Jesus told his followers in Act 1:8, “and you will be my witnesses…” To whom would God have you be a witness for Jesus? Don’t wait until it’s too late.
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