Due to me being sick last week I wasn’t able to post this, so here you go a week late.
On February 25, 1997 a man that I considered my second dad, Jeff Still, was killed by a drunk driver. Jeff was a man I looked up to in all aspects of life: He loved the Lord, he played Division I football in college, and he was a model husband and father to his two little boys—all things I aspired to each day of my young life [I was 16 years old when he was killed].
Jeff always listened to me, encouraged me, stuck up for me in the face of much adversity, and believed in me that the crazy goals I had could, and would, come true with enough faithful dedication and love.
I loved Jeff (I called him Coach Still) so very much. I still have a picture of him hanging on my refrigerator, and even in writing this my heart hurts remembering who he was and what he meant to me.