Odd how some people can be in your circle of life so long, you don’t remember when or how you met. They’ve simply been there.
And so it goes with Oliver Helsabeck.
Was it elementary school? Junior high? Surely not. But, perhaps. (I was, and remain, so disillusioned with the whole junior high experience, I’ve repeatedly tried to eradicate it from my memory.)
Let’s share a moment of honesty. Middle school. Junior high. Whatever. It’s terrible. It sucks. It bites. (This sounds like I’m describing an unwanted encounter with Dracula.) I wouldn’t revisit the seventh or eighth grade for any amount of money. I’m not particularly fond of middle school kids, either. I realize they probably can’t help it, but how do they morph into such obtuse little people? Really. This is why parents drink and wear mismatched pajamas.
The circumstances of our meeting are lost to history. I am, however, certain our friendship was firmly cemented before we arrived at North Forsyth in the fall of 1984.
Oliver was always the most stable member of the group. The most reliable. The most responsible. The least likely to engage in irresponsible behavior or say inappropriate things.
Springtime of some year between ’85 and ’88… A party. Everybody found trouble. Everybody got busted. Parents were furious. My mother gave birth to a billy goat when I confessed I’d left Win Craft at a Wake Forest frat party on Polo Road upon my return home well after 3:00 AM.
It was memorable, but not especially pleasant. We were in the middle of a musical. My mother started grounding people to whom she was not related. It was Titanic-sized anger.
Standing in the hall between the auditorium and the courtyard, she was pointing at people and calling names. Beau (he was first.) Donald. Al. Win. Jamie. Me. Everybody was grounded.
Except Oliver. Margaret Griffin looked him squarely in the eye and said, “Oliver, I know you can’t possibly be as stupid as the rest of them. You can go.”
It was the only time Oliver abandoned the group. He walked down the hall and left us to navigate the remnants of Hurricane Magnolia.
For our senior beach trip, Oliver was the parental choice for designated driver duty. (We forced Allen Tyndall to drive a couple times, because everybody fit in the back of his truck.) Otherwise, we didn’t go anywhere if Oliver didn’t know the way.
Oliver was smart. A North Carolina Teaching Fellow.
Oliver played in the band. He spoke eloquently. He swept the stage floor before Kathryn Crosby visited our school.
Oliver Helsabeck was, by all accounts, a good kid. Oliver Helsabeck is a good man.
Somewhere along the way, our paths diverged. He went to school. He fell in love. He married Susan. He is a terrific daddy to Elizabeth.
I’m redirecting the apple cart. Elizabeth. Their bouncing baby girl. Elizabeth is incredibly talented. She does practically everything. She performs. (I think she can play every instrument in the orchestra except bassoon. And I might be misinformed about that.) The kid has got talent, talent and more talent.
***UPDATE*** God has a fabulous sense of humor. I just learned Elizabeth played bassoon in her most recent concert. Of course she did. Love it.
The apple didn’t fall far from the tree.
Oliver let go and let God. He is a pastor in the United Methodist Church. He plays with the kids in the neighborhood. He feeds the hungry. He clothes the needy. He shepherds the flock. He prays. He weeps. He laughs.
He even resurrected a bee during a children’s sermon, but that’s a story for another time. Oliver does all the things I wish I was better about doing.
When “The Group” reconnected, the conversation was honest, but not always pure. The first time somebody used a grownup phrase, there was an immediate apology.
“Oliver… I’m sorry.”
It was understandable. I don’t think any of us are particularly proud of uttering one of Mike Krzyzewski’s favorite phrases in front of a preacher.
His response was swift and replete with grace.
“I loved you then and I love you now.”
Hhhmmm. I’ll give you a moment to think on that.
Quite a man.
I still think he should have been grounded with the rest of us sinners. But, quite a man.
I loved you then. I love you now.
Jeffrey Griffin 