My longtime friend, Lance Jennings, died this week of pancreatic cancer. I'm absolutely gutted. This one really, really hurts. I went to visitation yesterday morning in Murfreesboro and spoke briefly to his wife, Pam. Tears in my eyes, I told her how sorry I was, that I had been praying for Lance and their family, and that I would continue to do so. I hugged her, then left with the heaviest of hearts.
Lance and his company, ICS, have handled all of our IT (Information Technology) work at the office for more than 25 years. As a result, Lance has been part of the fabric of my professional life. An important part, really, because in this day and age, our server, computers, network, etc. are critically important parts of our office. I might go weeks without seeing or talking to Lance until there was a problem. Like magic, he would materialize at the office with a solution as soon as I called. Smiling. Always smiling.
20 + years ago, when my partners and I bought the building that houses our law practice, Lance (and ICS) wired it, purchased all of our equipment, set up our server and network, and installed our desktops and docking stations for those of us using laptops. It was a huge - and very important - project for Mark, Chas, and me, and Lance was there with us, in the trenches, every step of the way.
Over the years, he was our Winston Wolf (Harvey Keitel's character in Pulp Fiction). Whenever we had a computer-related problem at the office, I made a telephone call, and Lance was on-site within hours. Quickly, he found a solution or a workaround that kept our office running, sometimes until he could find a permanent solution.
Once I was at the office over a weekend, working, probably getting ready for a trial. While walking to get coffee at Frothy Monkey behind our office in downtown Franklin, I set my backpack down in the alley while I made a quick telephone call. Somehow, with my back turned, a car clipped my backpack and smashed my laptop to the point it was inoperable. Later, when I realized what hap happened, I was panic stricken. How could I work the rest of weekend?
I called Lance and very quickly, he had a solution. On a Saturday evening, he drove from Murfreesboro to our office, brought me a loaner laptop, connected it to our network, and I was off to the races. Smiling. Always smiling. Who does that?
A friend, that's who. A dear friend who cares about you and your professional success. A friend who wants to relieve stress in your life and make things easier for you. A friend who wants to make you smile.
I could probably recount at least 10 more stories just like that one, more if I polled the office. But that's not what I am going to miss with Lance's passing.
What I am going to miss, most of all, is his friendship. For me, Lance was one of those rare people in my life who, when I interacted with him at work, I always ended up smiling, happier, and in a better mood that I was before I saw him. For example, if I was walking down the hall in the office after a difficult client meeting, lost in thought, and I ran into Lance, working on site, I immediately started smiling. Just like that, whatever I was worrying about was gone, as Lance and I fell into our comfortable routine of joking with each other, talking politics, etc. Smiling, both of us, the entire time. Always smiling.
I think that's what I will miss the most. Those unplanned, unexpected interludes during a hectic and often stressful workday, when I turn around and, like magic, Lance is there. Smiling. Always smiling.
Lance was very private about his illness. The last time I talked with him on the telephone was shortly after his diagnosis. After that, when I called, he didn't answer, so I texted him. He almost always immediately responded to text messages with one of his own. And that was fine. As I told him, he didn't owe me anything. He needed to handle his illness the way he needed to handle. I just wanted him to know I was thinking about him and praying for him, every day. And he knew that.
Not too long after his diagnosis and beginning of treatment, he texted me a photograph of him parachuting. A tandem jump. "I did a thing," the message said. In the photo, Lance was smiling, which is how I will remember him. Smiling. Always smiling.
A couple of months ago, I was working at the office on a Saturday morning. I was in the front conference room when I heard the back door of the office open and close. Weird, I thought, because I was the only only in the office. I walked down the hall and opened up the back door. There, parked behind the office, was Lance in his Tesla. I knocked on the driver's side window, which startled him, I think.
Lance got out of the car and came back inside to sit down in my office. For the last time, we sat and talked, probably for 45 minutes or so. Unlike most of our conversations, this one, at times, was more serious. We talked candidly about his illness. We talked about his family and mine. He loved his family and absolutely hated the pain his illness caused them, especially his wife, Pam. We talked about life. We smiled and laughed, too, although not as much as we normally would when we are together.
Most of all, we said goodbye to each other. I knew it was the last time I would see him. He knew it, too, although we left it unspoken. When he got up to leave, I hugged him and told him I loved him. It was the kind of poignant, intimate moment with my friend I'll treasure for the rest of may life. I was saying goodbye to my friend.
Seeing Lance that day in my office was a blessing for me. A gift from God. I believe that. I got to tell guy friend thank you, that I loved him, that I was praying for him. I got to tell him goodbye.
Life is so damn hard and unfair sometimes. Lance left behind Pam, a wife he loved, four children, and by my count, 11 grandchildren. He was only 55 years old. This one hurts so badly.
Godspeed, Lance. I will miss you, my friend.
