That life is fragile, valuable, and finite, we all know. Yet the demands of life and the pursuit of our personal goals often blind us to the reality of these truths. So we live in the most foolish of ways, oblivious to our own mortality and the valuable lessons it could teach us. We know that people die, but it’s other people, strangers and the like, who we don’t know . . . until we do. Then, and only then, do we have the rare opportunity for personal epiphany.

My friend died this week. He was both mentor and servant, a very rare and beautiful combination in this world of selfish isolation. He both taught and learned, demonstrating that the greatest of life’s achievements isn’t success—it’s the humble pursuit of wisdom. He was like a father to me, quick with praise, protest, or suggestion, yet always offering these with a kind and loving spirit. He was a co-laborer in the gospel, a faithful shepherd, and my friend. And like Jesus with his friend Lazarus, when I heard the news of his death, I wept.

Time would not permit an adequate description of his accomplishments, nor would his humility tolerate such an exercise. But I must share some, even if only to indulge myself and ease my own grief. His achievements as a business man were many, the result of a keen mind and an intense work ethic; an ethic forged on the hot, dusty football fields at Georgia Tech and perfected in the frozen tundra of Labrador.

His achievements in ministry, however, were greater still. He was a passionate Christ-follower, who didn’t just talk about faith—he lived it. He was a faithful churchman who always used his gifts where they were needed most—as a teacher and leader. The final decade of his life was devoted to his most challenging task: helping to found and lead a new church during its most delicate and difficult years. He gave himself tirelessly to shepherd the fellowship at Cornerstone, lending his wisdom and expertise in every area, and managing every building project with his unique blend of leadership and love.

These achievements alone are notable. But there is one other area where his achievements are the greatest—his role as a husband to his wife and a father to his children. Sadly, I’ve come to believe that we all expect far more of our earthly fathers than they can ever deliver. We expect them to provide for us, protect us from harm, and prepare us for the future, all the time demonstrating perfect patience and grace. Clearly, only one Father can accomplish all of these things—Our Father, who art in heaven. All men have clay feet. To suggest otherwise is to invite rebuttal.

Yet occasionally, one of our fathers excels greatly in this task. Such was my friend. He loved Barbara, his wife of 55 years, and sought to provide her with both care and compassion. Like all marriages, theirs was not immune from the effects of the fall. Still, their love was clearly observable by all who knew them. Their gracious attitudes and actions towards one another stand as a beautiful example of a Christ-centered marriage.

So, too, were his relationships with his children: two sons and a daughter. A wise man once said, “Show me the child, and I will show you the man.” If this is the criterion, then my friend was a good man indeed. All of his children have achieved great personal success, but more importantly, all have found a life-long calling to Christian service. There is no greater testimony to a father, or mother, than a familial legacy of faith.

The death of my friend brings me a joy-filled sorrow, yet it provides me with a fresh opportunity to reflect on some important lessons he taught me through his life; lessons that can free me from the “mirage” of invincibility and release me to redeem the time of my own life, something he would very much want all of us to do.

1.  There is nothing of greater value than time invested in God’s kingdom work.
2. There is no higher goal than magnifying the glory of God in every situation.
3. There is no greater gift I can give my wife than a commitment to love her as Christ loved his church.
4. There is no greater inheritance I can give my children than a legacy of authentic faith.
5. There is no greater help I can be to a friend than to be both a patient teacher and learner, fulfilling both in a spirit of gracious humility.

To be sure, I still have so much to learn as I pursue these lofty goals. But I’m so thankful to my friend, Paul Avant, for modeling these goals in his life and reminding me of their profound significance for my own.