by Jessi Colter
After God’s visitation, I had entered the zone that I sometimes hear athletes describe—where their every move is effortless as they gracefully move toward victory. In this case, the victory was not mine. It was God’s.
“Good grief, girl,” said Ralph Mooney, the great steel guitarist who’d accompanied me, “looking at you down there on the ground, I was sure you’d fainted.”
“Not even close,” I said.
“Then what were you doing?” Ralph asked.
“Giving God the glory.”
Later I learned that, at the very moment of my performance, my mother, far off on our mine property with Daddy, had sensed my fear and prayed for my comfort. I couldn’t imagine life without Mother. Yet in only a few short weeks, that was the harsh reality I found myself facing.
I was home in Nashville when my brother Johnny called to say that Mother had fallen and suffered a cerebral hemorrhage. I flew to Phoenix where she lay in a coma at St. Joseph’s, the hospital where I was born. During these last days, it was a blessing to stay by her side. As she made her transition, I saw on her face a beautiful calmness—a radiant glow—that belied all anxiety. I thought of the scripture “Perfect love casts out fear” (1 John 4:18).
Waylon, who loved her dearly, came to her funeral in Mesa, where I sang “When Jesus Comes.”
Sister Helen Johnson was eulogized as a woman who strengthened the knees of the lame and opened the eyes of the blind. Deep sadness fused with great joy—sadness that she had left this realm, joy that she was at one with Christ, her bright morning star and the lover of her soul.
In the aftermath of Mother’s passing, my worldly successes seemed insignificant. Yet the world went on. I mothered Jennifer, then eleven. I toured. I recorded. My second Capitol album, Jessi, was issued on the heels of “I’m Not Lisa” being nominated for two Grammys. Waylon did the lion’s share of production work with help from Ken Mansfield. I had wanted to release Mirriam first, but the label thought it risky to change direction so suddenly, especially after I’d hit the pop charts. As Jessi entered the Billboard’s Top 100, Waylon and I were greeted with still another unexpected surprise: a collection he had put together called Wanted! The Outlaws was released, causing an immediate sensation.
It was all Waylon’s doing. He’d gone through the vaults and compiled mostly previously recorded tracks by himself, Willie Nelson, Tompall Glaser, and me. Waylon included a duet of us singing “Suspicious Minds” and “I Ain’t the One,” plus my versions of “I’m Looking for Blue Eyes,” “You Mean to Say,” “It Ain’t Easy,” and “Why You Been Gone So Long.” Willie’s contributions ranged from “Heaven and Hell,” the charming “Me and Paul,” and the haunting “Healing Hands of Time.” Tompall sang “T for Texas” and “Put Another Log on the Fire.” Waylon contributed two heroic numbers—“Honky Tonk Heroes (Like Me)” and “My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys.”
Waylon and Willie wrote and sang as a duet the song that ignited it all. “Good Hearted Woman” was a number-one hit and the album became an instant classic, heralded as a hallmark in country music. In its first two weeks, Wanted! The Outlaws sold a million copies—the first album in the history of country music to do so—and, before it was over, sales would exceed five million.
The album cover, designed to look like a wanted poster in the post office, had pictures of Waylon, Willie, Tompall, and myself. People asked me what it felt like to be included in a group of so-called ruffians. My answer was always the same—I was honored to be the only gal in the outlaw clan. I was honored because my fellow hooligans were all remarkably talented singer-songwriters.
As far as the handle itself, I didn’t take it all that seriously. And neither did Waylon. He understood that while he and Willie had certainly stood firm in the face of Nashville conformity, Music City had taught them a lot. And despite whatever differences they had had with Nashville production, both Waylon and Willie loved and respected Chet Atkins.
“It’s romantic to call someone an outlaw,” Waylon once said. “And in this country, romance sells. If you’re in the record business and you don’t realize the power of promotion, you’d better go back to the farm and start milking cows.”
Whether it was the romance of the packaging or the combination of the artists or the selection of the songs, Wanted! The Outlaws was a turning point. Country music was never quite the same afterward.
Jessi, my second Capitol album, did so well that they wanted to rush out a third. When I expressed my desire to release Mirriam, I heard the same arguments I’d heard before—don’t undercut your career by a sudden move in a different direction. I didn’t buy the argument. I wasn’t looking to protect my career. But the songs I’d recorded for Mirriam would always be there. I had every intention of releasing the record. And if that meant waiting another year, so be it.
Given the hurry-up mood surrounding my third Capitol record—Diamond in the Rough—I didn’t have much time to write. Of the ten songs, only three were new compositions of mine. The rest were covers. I loved the covers, though, especially the deeply soulful title cut by Donnie Fritts and Spooner Oldham. I had fun singing Lennon and McCartney’s “Get Back” and “Hey Jude,” and especially Lee Emerson’s “I Thought I Heard You Calling My Name.” Lee was a friend, a great writer with a crazy reputation. Despite—or because of—his idiosyncrasies, we got along well. He once gave me a jukebox crammed with his hits. Tragically, he was shot to death by Barry Sadler, the songwriter of “The Ballad of the Green Berets.” They were fighting over a woman.
I continued to fight for my emotional equilibrium, using songs to shore up my spirits. Two of my originals for Diamond in the Rough point to the ongoing challenges I faced with Waylon. My love hadn’t diminished—it never would—but at times my patience was wearing thin. Waylon’s wandering ways hadn’t completely stopped. And yet I remained resolute. I stayed. At the same time, I allowed my emotions to wander in songs like “Would You Leave Now.”
I see you leaving
You see me grieving
You hear me pleading for you to stay
I see you walking
Don’t you hear me talking
The tears I’m crying straight from my soul
Would you leave now before it’s over?
I also did not inhibit my humor or my devotion in a song that spoke directly to the man I loved. For the first time in lyrics, I called him by name:
You did hang the moon, didn’t you, Waylon?
Weren’t you the one they called the seventh son
You take so many words and bring
them all home with one
You walk into my room and it lights up like the sun Each step you take leads a way for someone
And I know you’d never do love wrong
You did hang the moon, didn’t you, Waylon?
The third original song I wrote for Diamond in the Rough was based on fiction rather than fact. I invented a story and imagined a character I called Will. I envisioned him as a man who, through forces greater than himself, rained misery on the woman in his life. It was a plaintive ballad, shot through with pain, “Oh Will (Who Made It Rain Last Night).”
Oh Will, who made it rain last night
Who can take the blue from my sky
And paint it black night?
Who’s telling me to look so I’ll see
The tears for years we will cry
Talk to me, Will, you never told lies
Who made it rain last night
His hand in mine, the tears in my eyes
That won’t dry
And wounds in my heart that won’t heal
Will was not Waylon, and yet Waylon, for all his wonderful qualities, was still not the man I wanted him to be.
In the wake of all our great successes—“I’m Not Lisa,” the Outlaws record, and Waylon’s bestselling Are You Ready for the Country album—we were both trying to cope with a heady mix of emotions. We were both dealing with frantically busy schedules. We were both caught
up in a blizzard of show business demands.
In the midst of heavy confusion, when it came to Waylon, I had reached the limits of my understanding. We didn’t sit down with a counselor. We didn’t even discuss it with each other. We just did it.
We separated.
Chapter 19
MIRRIAM
A FRIEND OF MINE IS ALWAYS SAYING, “JUST WHEN YOU THINK you’ve been patient enough, more patience is required.”
I wish I had heard those words in 1976, the year that I was convinced my patience had been exhausted. The cause of the breakup was not Waylon’s infidelities or his drug use, although both matters continued to concern me. The cause was my return to faith.
In re-embracing Christ, I felt whole. During my years of wandering, I had sorely missed that blissful feeling. When I reclaimed that feeling, when I could openly and sincerely profess my faith, I did so with firm conviction and boundless enthusiasm. I wanted Waylon to share this faith with me. I wanted him to come back to Jesus, just as I had.
The death of my mother surely contributed to my emotional state. I thanked God that she had been alive to witness my spiritual homecoming. I saw that as one of the great blessings of my adult life. She had been my mother in Christ. Now I longed for Waylon to be my husband in Christ. Without his commitment to God, I didn’t see how I could stay with him.
When I approached the subject, he was adamant.
“I like that you’ve found your way back to the Lord,” he said. “It’s good to be a believer. And I do believe in something greater than myself. I’d be a fool not to. But I’m not ready to call that something by any name, whether it’s Moses, Buddha, Jehovah, or Jesus. I ain’t there yet, and maybe will never be.”
I came back with arguments. I came back with Scripture. I was well versed in what seemed to me incontrovertible proof of Jesus’ divinity. And though I understood how Waylon’s early indoctrination into the fire-and-brimstone furnace of fear-based Christianity had repelled him, I soldiered on. I was convinced I could persuade him. When I couldn’t, I despaired. I even became angry. In my desire to control Waylon’s heart, I overlooked my mother’s example of turning control over to God. My intentions were good but my timing was bad. I was headstrong and even self-righteous.
During one phone call when Waylon said something about God I considered untoward, the Spirit rose up in me and I let my husband have it. This was highly unusual. I almost always kept my cool. My verbal expression was so powerful I could practically see Waylon taking ten steps back.
“Wow!” he exclaimed. “I’m gonna watch my tongue. I never want that to happen again.”
I’d made my point but I’d also pushed my point too far. It wasn’t that Waylon didn’t need Jesus. It’s my belief that all human souls need Jesus. But was this the right moment and was I the right person to bring him to Jesus? Was I exerting the sensitivity required to accurately read his heart? Or was I, in my insistence, being more self-centered than understanding, more dogmatic about my beliefs than curious about Waylon’s?
Although we argued, the arguments didn’t last long. There were no verbal fireworks. We both knew that we needed time away from each other. Waylon went his way and I went mine. He slept on the couch in the studio and went on tour without me. I was fine with that. New songs were forming in my head. I visited new churches. I felt neither fear nor remorse. And yet . . .
Waylon Jennings was a man I couldn’t stop loving even when I tried. And believe me, I did try. The truth is that I thought about him in the morning when I awoke and in the evening when I went to sleep. I smiled when his music came on the radio. I laughed when I thought about his salty humor. I longed for him. And yet I did not call him. I kept my distance, and he kept his.
The estrangement went on for three months. We were both brooding in our neutral corners. Meanwhile, I decided to look around for a home. I called Jean, our real estate agent, and put her on the case. She showed me several charming houses, but I didn’t really fall in love until, by describing a grand piano in the living room, she lured me into looking at a house in the lush rolling hills of Brentwood, a small township that dated back to the Civil War, about eleven miles from Nashville. It was love at first sight, a large three-level home incorporating wood, glass, and stone—open and modern. Light everywhere. The grounds were lovely. There was a pool and pool house. I thought I could be happy there. The price was steep but my royalties were good.
“Give me a few days to think about it,” I told Jean.
During those few days, the phone rang. I was surprised to hear Waylon’s voice.
“Jean took me to the house,” he said, without even a trace of anger. He was as pleasant as could be.
“Oh, she did,” I said.
“I like it. I think we should buy it.”
That surprised me.
“Oh, you do,” I said.
“I honestly do.”
Neither of us mentioned our separation. There was no need to. The house seemed to symbolize a reconciliation. But was I willing? Seeking divine guidance, I fell to my knees in prayer. The answer came quickly. I felt that God would bless me if I left Waylon and also bless me if I stayed.
“But what do you want me to do?” I asked the Lord. When audible words didn’t come, I struggled with the decision.
At one point, I spoke with my dear friend Addie, then married to a musician in Waylon’s band, about my dilemma.
“He’ll fall apart without you, Jessi,” she said.
“I’m not sure about that.”
“I am. And so is everyone else who knows Waylon. You’re his rock. You’re the one keeping him sane. Remember the time he thought bugs were crawling all over him and he insisted that the house be exterminated right there and then?”
It wasn’t a pleasant memory. Waylon had been at the end of a bad pill binge and was seeing things.
“Well,” said Addie, “you’re the only one who could talk some sense into him.”
“Maybe so,” I said, “but I did call the exterminators.”
“You know how to keep him calm.”
“No one can keep Waylon calm.”
“You’re keeping him alive, Jessi. Your good influence, your positive energy, your connection to God—without your strength, he’s lost.”
Those words hit home.
My prayers intensified. And soon I clearly heard a voice inside say a single word: stay.
I didn’t have to report the results of my deliberations to Waylon. Words weren’t necessary. He understood. He wasn’t looking for me to apologize to him about my zeal in demanding his conversion. I knew I was wrong and Waylon knew it too. Similarly, I wasn’t looking for him to apologize to me about whatever nonsense he might have fallen into. He, too, was well aware of his own transgressions. The bottom line was obvious to us both: We’d seen that living apart wasn’t working for us. We’d learned that we didn’t want to break up. We wanted to be together. We loved each other dearly. And that was that.
I now admitted to myself that assuming spiritual leadership was neither wise nor necessary. Waylon was his own man. I was my own woman. I could be led by God without insisting that Waylon be led in the same way. My job was to love him absolutely. And absolute love requires compassion. That meant leaving my own set of assumptions so I could hear the stirrings of my lover’s heart. I was learning that love means listening more than leading, understanding more than demanding.
We called our new home Southern Comfort because that’s what it symbolized—a strong reconciliation and a new beginning. We saw it as our first honest-to-goodness, let’s-live-here-forever home. It had the potential to be the kind of showplace—not gaudy, but distinctively beautiful—that, for all his success, Waylon had never lived in.
“The only problem,” said Waylon, “is cash flow. Neil Reshen says we still owe the government back taxes. He says I don’t have enough for the down payment. The present owner is demanding a large chunk in cash.”
“Not to worry,” I said. “My cash has be
en flowing rather nicely. I can provide the down payment.”
Wisely, Waylon and I had retained separate banking accounts. His money might have been funny, but mine wasn’t. My royalties for “I’m Not Lisa” were sitting in the bank. If buying this house was going to contribute to our happiness, as we both believed, then I was happy to fork over the funds.
I immediately went to work personalizing our home in ways that mirrored our sense of beauty. I worked with William F. Hamilton, a renowned decorator, who helped me augment the clean lines and modern elements with romantic fabrics, comfortable seating, and fabulous accessories. We selected antique tables and cabinets that reflected our storied surroundings. Southern Comfort was only a stone’s throw away from the home of John Overton, advisor to Andrew Jackson. Before the Battle of Nashville during the Civil War, our Brentwood area had served as headquarters for John Hood of the Confederacy. We were encircled by history.
Even though I had let go of my insistence that Waylon follow my spiritual lead, I wasn’t about to give up the faith I had recovered. It didn’t matter that it didn’t work for Waylon because it certainly did work for me.
My rekindled love for God was more than precious to me. It was motivational. It was the reason that, through these uncertain times with Waylon, I was able to go on. The part of myself that I had once discarded—the woman still known to my family as Mirriam—needed to introduce herself to the world. That meant releasing the Mirriam album.
Even though the music had been recorded and was ready to go, Capitol was still saying no. They were pleased that I was reaching both the country and pop markets. But, they argued, most artists switching from those fields to gospel wind up hurting their careers. I argued that I wasn’t trying to redefine myself as a gospel artist. I simply had a suite of songs that were especially close to my heart. And my heart was saying, “Let this music be heard.”