Flowers on the road

Sometimes you don't know where to start. And sometimes, when it comes to words, you know they aren't up to the task.

How can words capture the essence of a human soul? Of a human being taken from Earth far too soon, with children left behind? Of a life lived so right that it should be considered an example for us all? 

Words simply cannot do that. But sometimes we have to try to make them do it anyway, and this is one of those times.

Last Friday the Good Lord called Jason Nesbit home, for reasons I am not designed to understand, at least not while I'm here on Earth. Jason was a year younger than me, and his son Austin and daughter Jordan are just 5 and 3. The thought of them losing their dad at such tender ages is horrible.

Their mother Jennifer is strong, but the thought of her becoming a widow and being forced to face the daunting responsibilities of motherhood alone... that thought is horrible too.

I knew Jason for two decades. What you must know about him is that he was the kindest person I ever met.

And that is not hyperbole. Many people knew him longer than I did and better than I did, and I know -- know -- that they will also say he was the kindest person they ever met.

It might sound corny, cheesy, and cliche to say of somebody that "he was a friend to all and an enemy to none," but Jason really was a friend to all and an enemy to none. I never heard him say anything negative about another person, never heard a cross word cross his lips, never saw him behave any way other than peacefully.

A guitar in his hands was like magic. Over the years I have seen an eclectic bunch of world class musicians perform live, from best-drummer-ever Max Roach to the Grateful Dead to piano men Elton John and Billy Joel. I have witnessed Stephen Stills unfurl a jaw-dropping acoustic solo that took "Suite Judy Blue Eyes" to the next level, and have been there in person when k.d. lang sang "Hallelujah" so movingly that goosebumps rippled the flesh.

You'll have to trust me when I say that Jason Nesbit was as good as they.

It seems cruel that nobody will ever again have the pleasure of listening to him at a mic -- just him and his guitar, in a beach bar in Florida or a mountain valley in Georgia -- as he belts out "Wagon Wheel," or as he taps into some kind of divine stream with his own songs, especially my two favorite of his originals: "Jenny Jenny" and "Crooked River."

"Jenny Jenny" was his ode to his little sister who died unexpectedly 10 years ago. One of its lyrics said that they didn't get to finish their song. If there is a silver lining to his own death, it is what his father mentioned on Facebook: Jason and Jenny now are getting to finish their song together in Heaven.

Down here on Earth, however, there is still a feeling of loss that words cannot accurately describe.

The last time I saw Jason was almost 14 months ago. On that day, he learned of me starting to overcome a personal struggle (one that involves tasty beverages in glass bottles) and the last thing he did before Erika, Sarah, and I walked to the car was grab me in a bear hug and say in my ear: "I love you man."

The last time we communicated directly was 16 days ago, by Messenger, and he typed the words "I love you brother and I'll see you a little further on the road." And that's the thing about Jason Nesbit: He often called people "brother," but he wasn't just flipping that word out there, he meant it when he said it, and when he told you that he loved you, he genuinely wanted the world to be your oyster.

It was cancer that claimed his life. He knew the end was coming, and he was a believer in the imagery and meaning of "the road" as used in the Steve Earle song "Pilgrim." In my own mind, I am thinking of how the corners of your mouth perk up in a smile when you are traveling down a country lane and pass a bunch of wildflowers blooming in the grass beside the road. That's what I think of when I think of Jason Nesbit: He, like those roadside flowers that show up every spring, always brightened your day and made you feel at ease when you were around him.

It feels so wrong that such a person is no longer on Earth. But I do believe the road we're on leads to eternity, and that our journey down the road should be good. Maybe those of us who knew him should think of him whenever we see those roadside flowers. Maybe that's a decent way to keep him in mind.

If it sounds corny, cheesy, and cliche, so be it.

Rest in peace.