Letter to Lovic
Letter to Lovic
You left us when I was six years old, and somehow you still managed to plant a flag in my life.
April 10, 1979 is a date that lives in my memory like a scar with a story. Dayton was there, like I’m sure you remember. And I’m willing to bet you’ve kept up with him ever since. Pretty cool dude, if you ask me. He married Angie Bateman, raised five kids, and now he’s got more grandkids than I can count. But again… you already know all that.
What I’ve always wondered is about those men and families you’d stop by to see. Who were they? War buddies? Business partners? Quiet people you were trying to help without making a show of it? You never explained it. You just did it. And I noticed.
I also noticed you flirting with Grandma Merle. You weren’t being slick. You were being loyal. You were showing me how a man treats his woman with attention, humor, and steady warmth. I try to do the same with Christy. Those early mornings before you headed to work at the chicken farm were priceless. Back then, I didn’t understand how a man can love people deeply and still feel that pull to get moving. Now I do. Work drive. Duty. That restless urge to provide.
I understand the love for a good smoke and a stiff drink too. I just learned early that I couldn’t hold my liquor, smoke a cigarette, and cook a decent steak without burning something. I didn’t inherit that particular superpower. Maybe your generation really was built different. Not just because of wars, but because you carried weight without talking about it.
Your hands were massive. You were quiet. Steady. My son Stephen reminds me of you. You’d love him. He has your look and your walk, and he’s taller than you. You’d get a kick out of looking up at him and watching him wrap you in one of those bear hugs.
The day we said goodbye, Joey and Steve were actually cordial. They haven’t been too cordial since, but you’d understand. Jones boys can be a handful. Hard-headed. Strong-willed. But you’d be proud. Proud of the kids you and Merle raised. Proud of the grandkids and great-grands coming behind us. A whole heap of children growing up, trying to piece together who you were from stories, photographs, and the way your name still lands heavy in a room.
Thank you for the memories. Thank you for the time. I never forgot.
You gave me a love for Athens, Georgia and the Bulldogs, but you also taught me how to respect Bobby Bowden. That balance still makes me smile. I met Coach Mrvos my freshman year at Georgia, and he seemed to already know me. But again… you already know that too.
Coach Mrvos had that scowl and that fire. He’d coached with Bowden, Dooley, and a list of leaders you would’ve loved watching teach young men how to become men. You had a compass for leadership, Lovic. And somehow, God used you and Grandma Merle to set guideposts in me I didn’t even realize I was following.
When Athens was quiet on a random spring day, I’d walk campus and think about you. Sometimes when I prayed, I’d ask God to let you hear it, wherever you were: I’m going to be alright. We’re going to be alright.
And I think you did hear it.
“One generation shall commend your works to another, and shall declare your mighty acts.” (Psalm 145:4)
Thanks again, Grandpa. Thanks for what you did for our country, and for what you did for our family. You knew your leaving would put pressure on your kids, but they turned out like diamonds. And yes, I know… you already know this. I’m writing it anyway so my kids, and their kids, can know you a little more and become diamonds too.
From Red Clay Gospel: The Holy Ordinary Volume One. If this resonated, share with one person who might need it.