Jewell sat in the back seat as we pulled away from her Chalk Hill, Texas home of more than thirty years. Her face never left the window as she silently watched her life flow away from her. That was the first mile of my mother-in-law’s last move on earth. As I watched her in my rearview mirror, I saw her as a deer, bounding higher up through the hills to avoid the rising waters from a long and heavy rain. In that mental video, I saw the water had already swallowed the crops, streets, cemeteries, fences, and roads. The main bridge had collapsed. There was nowhere left to go. She died a few months later. She had lived out her life in small and modest houses, older cars, ramshackle church buildings, handmade clothes, and pets that wandered up from somewhere. She and her husband Joe and their four “J” daughters—Jayne, Joyce, Joanne, and Jeannette— lived in South Texas oil patch towns and along life’s back roads; they knew how to make do with small places and smaller paychecks. However, the daughters have good memories of parents who cared and gave love and laughter. But it was a life of catfish, not caviar. They didn’t take cruises or sing Broadway show tunes as they danced around the kitchen. The soundtrack of their life came from country music. Jewell was the classic “good hearted woman, in love with a good-timin’ man.” Joe loved his wife and daughters, but he also loved good times: beer joints, barbeque, dominoes, and practical jokes. Jewell held her family together with prayer, hard work, duct tape, bailing wire, killing rattlesnakes—whatever it took. From the time they met, Jewell and Joe were, in Tanya Tucker’s words, “two sparrows in a hurricane.” They faced many hard realities in their lifetime Waltz Across Texas. In the end, Jewell strained against the limitations of her body. Her clothes of mortality were threadbare. And like she did with her clothes, she tried to patch what was wearing out—with pharmaceuticals, surgeries, bypasses, and other medical measures. She hoped to get another decade, one more year, maybe twenty-four more hours. Jewell was one of the most loved people I’ve ever known. She was a glowing campfire on a cold night; people wanted to stand near her. Religious people and those who weren’t, the elderly, kids, white people, black people, Democrats, Republicans, rich, poor, the prominent and those shoved into life’s gutters; Jewell had room for them all. And they surely loved her. That’s why one of my favorite memories of her is a FedEx truck parked outside her church just before her funeral. Regina, the driver, took time from delivering her packages to be there ... in uniform! Will your FedEx driver attend your funeral? Finally, for all who knew her, another country song gives voice to what many of us felt about Jewell. “Lovin’ her was easier than anything I’ll ever do again.” She never attended a prom, wrote a book, or composed a song. She never saw the inside of a limousine, jet, or yacht. Jewell never ran for office or occupied a place of prominence. But in her small spaces and ways, she lived out the quiet beauty of Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount. She knew sorrow and hunger, offered mercy, treated people well, loved generously, and made peace wherever she could. She didn’t have many possessions, but she had something that cannot be bought, borrowed, or built: the affection of people whose lives were better because she passed through them. Jewell never had much use for grand entrances or impressive exits. But so what? On the day we said goodbye, a delivery driver interrupted her rounds, parked her FedEx truck outside that little Texas church, and came inside. Regina had one last delivery to make. Not a package. Just to return love to one who had touched her life with love. Let the humble rejoice! The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe
