Of everyday saints and heroes: remembering Jeff Valine

My good friend Jeff Valine died this past Monday.  His death made me realize that I am surrounded by saints and heroes disguised as everyday people, remarkable people who have shaped my life.  The grinding perspective of time, the soul-weathering press of disappointment or failure, and the inevitable uncontrollability of life humble us all.  And only through humility can we see the true greatness, the wonderful glory of the beautiful people alongside us.  In the impatience of youth, it can hardly be recognized much less appreciated or treasured.  Today I stare back through time and see the stabilizing power of good people who through providence and grace were placed in my path to form the way that I understand the world, to influence the way I respond to the people around me.  Jeff was one of these people.  He was an oak of stability in a forest of loneliness.  There were no outsiders to Jeff.  His inclination toward everyone was joy and laughter and acceptance.  He was humble, kind, unobtrusive and transparent.  He was simply a trustworthy friend, and that is simply invaluable. 

Love hopes all things, believes all things.  That was Jeff.  He saw the best in people -- he had a loving optimism that hoped all things. 

It is impossible to describe the impact Jeff had on me in ninth and tenth grade, difficult years full of insecurity and loneliness.  I had the good fortune of having a locker next to Jeff, and every day there was a friend who accepted me without expectation and with no terms.  Jeff lived two blocks from school, and I spent one or two evenings at his house each week during the fall and winter athletic seasons, waiting for football or basketball games at FHS.  The Valines were an extension of my family.  I felt safe there.  I was myself with no projection or pretense or anxiety.  It was a haven of joy, and Jeff was the prime instigator.  Recognizing the rarity of the gift Jeff possessed, I know with all certainty what a truly exceptional home he must have made with Lorna.  Alex and Kaycee have been raised by a father who loved others in such an extraordinary way that I can only imagine how he must have loved his children at home.

And this is the paradox which lies at the heart of grief and loss, especially an untimely loss like this.  Those nearest to Jeff, those who lived in closest proximity to his overflowing kindness and love, those who grieve most deeply, are also those who experienced his uncommon magnanimity and goodness most profoundly.  I don’t know how to begin to console a widowed wife of 22 years or two teenagers who lost such a wonderful dad.  The hole left by the departure of Jeff seems inconsolable -- indeed today it is inconsolable.  But the impact of Jeff on their lives is undoubtedly orders of magnitude more beautiful and lasting than his impact on me, and his impact on me was so profound that I am utterly inspired by the thought of what people they are and who they will become.  And that is hopeful for me today, on a day when sadness and confusion are palpable and oppressive.  My good friend is gone too soon, but his legacy is bright and wonderful and eternal, and I am immensely grateful to be a part of it.