Someday I will spend eternity with Steve Dooley. His is not a name most of you know, and even I did not know him well. But I have been thinking about him a great deal this week since learning of his death, too young, from cancer.
Every life comes with a gift, and Steve's gift seemed to be an abundance of grace in the ordinary moments of life. As an older female musician, I first encountered Steve at a local chain guitar store where he worked in the audio department. This was a hard store to shop in. Most of the clerks would barely give me any time when I had questions, and if a younger, hipper male musician walked in, I was left to my own devices.
Not so with Steve.
His patience with my questions was extraordinary. I was trying to transition into the world of digital recording, and through many years of drop-ins as I progressed through the process, he would carefully listen and guide me through. In his presence I felt respected and valued, and his kindness was a warm blanket in the less than welcoming marketplace in which he worked.
Later, while working with a local prison ministry, I encountered Steve again at a large church where he was doing sound. He was a gifted soundman who could mix a stage full of musicians and singers with such expertise that each part of the mix had a unique place, yet the whole was complete and well-rounded. Again, no matter how busy he was, he would take the time to give full eye contact and listen, as though you were the only person who mattered at the moment.
Somehow, we kept running into each other over the years-- at the grocery store, at the church---and through those brief encounters, he shared snippets of his continuing struggle with cancer, always upbeat, always moving along to some more "important" subject.
And now he is gone, and I am left thinking about his legacy.
Our world is so consumed with the worship of celebrity and a desire to be noticed for being extraordinary. But people like Steve teach us that the greatest gift to this world is the gift of ordinary kindness. I treasure his footprint in my life not because he was an extraordinary sound man, though he was, but because he gave the gift of being present in the lives of others. He gave the gift of respecting you no matter where you came from. He gave the gift of letting others shine as he patiently listened.
It is hard to write about someone you do not know well. Others may read this who called him a close friend, and to all of you, I offer my sincere hope that my recollection of Steve honors him as you knew him.
I may not have known Steve well, but I do know well the arms who hold him now--- the arms that lovingly crafted him and molded him into the man who impacted my life and the lives of so many others. And with all my heart, I know those same mighty, merciful arms welcomed him home with, "Well done, thou good and faithful servant."
Someday, I will join Steve where he rests, but until then, I hope to master, as Steve had done, the gift of extraordinary kindness in the ordinary moments of life.
Every life comes with a gift, and Steve's gift seemed to be an abundance of grace in the ordinary moments of life. As an older female musician, I first encountered Steve at a local chain guitar store where he worked in the audio department. This was a hard store to shop in. Most of the clerks would barely give me any time when I had questions, and if a younger, hipper male musician walked in, I was left to my own devices.
Not so with Steve.
His patience with my questions was extraordinary. I was trying to transition into the world of digital recording, and through many years of drop-ins as I progressed through the process, he would carefully listen and guide me through. In his presence I felt respected and valued, and his kindness was a warm blanket in the less than welcoming marketplace in which he worked.
Later, while working with a local prison ministry, I encountered Steve again at a large church where he was doing sound. He was a gifted soundman who could mix a stage full of musicians and singers with such expertise that each part of the mix had a unique place, yet the whole was complete and well-rounded. Again, no matter how busy he was, he would take the time to give full eye contact and listen, as though you were the only person who mattered at the moment.
Somehow, we kept running into each other over the years-- at the grocery store, at the church---and through those brief encounters, he shared snippets of his continuing struggle with cancer, always upbeat, always moving along to some more "important" subject.
And now he is gone, and I am left thinking about his legacy.
Our world is so consumed with the worship of celebrity and a desire to be noticed for being extraordinary. But people like Steve teach us that the greatest gift to this world is the gift of ordinary kindness. I treasure his footprint in my life not because he was an extraordinary sound man, though he was, but because he gave the gift of being present in the lives of others. He gave the gift of respecting you no matter where you came from. He gave the gift of letting others shine as he patiently listened.
It is hard to write about someone you do not know well. Others may read this who called him a close friend, and to all of you, I offer my sincere hope that my recollection of Steve honors him as you knew him.
I may not have known Steve well, but I do know well the arms who hold him now--- the arms that lovingly crafted him and molded him into the man who impacted my life and the lives of so many others. And with all my heart, I know those same mighty, merciful arms welcomed him home with, "Well done, thou good and faithful servant."
Someday, I will join Steve where he rests, but until then, I hope to master, as Steve had done, the gift of extraordinary kindness in the ordinary moments of life.
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