An Outlaw and a Lady

by Jessi Colter

  In 1990, the Highwaymen reunited for their second album, continuing with Chips Moman as producer. I was especially touched by the song Waylon wrote with Roger Murrah for the project, “Angels Love Bad Men.” He called it a reflection of his past.

  When his stolen gold has turned to rust

  He rides off in a cloud of dust

  Lookin’ for a border he can cross

  She’ll stand by and watch him go

  Wonderin’ if he’ll ever know

  The hurt she’s feelin’ now, and what they’ve lost

  Angels love bad men, that’s how it’s always been

  They give their whole hearts when they fall

  Angels love bad men, that’s how it’s always been

  Love holds their hearts against the wall

  When his corporate day comes to an end

  He rides away in his Mercedes Benz

  Soon he’s lost beneath the neon sky

  Outside of town, in their suburban home

  She spends another night alone

  And wonders what went wrong, wonders why

  Listening to the song, I wondered about Waylon’s ongoing resistance to the acceptance of Christ in his life. I wondered whether he still viewed himself as a “bad man,” someone incapable of self-forgiveness or the forgiveness of God Almighty. It was a tricky question because, as I had learned long ago, even in the mildest form, proselytizing would never work with Waylon.

  At the same time, I knew that Waylon’s interest in spirituality had certainly grown. The best evidence was his relationship with minister Will Campbell. Brother Will was going through a rough financial patch and needed a job. Waylon and I loved the man. We’d both read Dragon to a Butterfly, his riveting autobiography, praised by everyone from President Jimmy Carter to writers Walker Percy and Robert Penn Warren. Waylon especially admired how, in President Carter’s words, Brother Will “tore down the walls that separated white and black Southerners.”

  “If you want work,” Waylon told him, “come over to the house tonight. The bus rolls at midnight.”

  Will came out on the road with us for several trips. His job was undefined. If anyone asked me, I said he was Waylon’s spiritual advisor. Waylon simply liked having the man around.

  During one long trek, I heard Will ask Waylon, “Hey, man, what do you believe?”

  Waylon hesitated before answering. When he did speak, all he said was, “Yeah.”

  Will lived with the answer for a few minutes before saying, “‘Yeah’? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Yeah means yeah,” was Waylon’s only response. The conversation ended there.

  Brother Will was cool. He knew not to probe further. He understood the mandate of Saint Francis who said, “Preach the gospel at all times; when necessary, use words.” In addressing the issue of Waylon’s soul, words were not necessary. The mere fact that he wanted a blood-washed believer like Will Campbell in his presence was evidence that God was stirring his heart.

  It wasn’t long after that Waylon started working on “I Do Believe,” a song recorded by the Highwaymen on their third and final album, The Road Goes On Forever, produced by Don Was.

  After writing it, Waylon sang the song for me, and then for Brother Will.

  “What do you think?” asked Waylon.

  “That’ll preach,” answered Will.

  The song said:

  In my own way I’m a believer

  In my own way right or wrong

  I don’t talk too much about it

  It’s something I keep working on

  I don’t have too much to build on

  My faith has never been that strong

  There is a man in that old building

  He’s a holy man, they say

  He keeps talking about tomorrow

  While I keep struggling with today

  He preaches hellfire and brimstone

  And heaven seems so far away

  I do believe in a higher power

  One that loves us one and all

  Not someone to solve our problems

  Or to catch me when I fall

  He gave us all a mind to think with

  And to know what’s right or wrong

  He is that inner spirit

  That keeps us strong

  In my own way I’m a believer

  But not in voices I can’t hear

  I believe in a loving father

  One I never have to fear

  That I should live life at its fullest

  Just as long as I am here

  I love the song’s honesty, especially Waylon’s confession that he hasn’t “too much to build on” because his faith “has never been that strong.” Of course he’s talking about his experience with his childhood church, the same church that, in the second verse, is led by “a holy man” preaching the gospel of fear. In the face of that negative indoctrination, the song is a straight-up declaration of faith. For the first time ever, Waylon defined himself as a believer. He avoided the word God but not the term higher power. I was deeply moved that he called that higher power—that “inner spirit”—“a loving father.”

  The song thrilled me to my core. I viewed it as unequivocal acceptance of a loving Creator.

  “But why not call that Creator by name?” I asked.

  “You want me to call him Jesus?” asked Waylon.

  “He is Jesus.”

  “Why is the name so important to you, Jessi? What’s in a name?”

  “Truth is in his name. Love is in his name. Forgiveness is in his name. Mercy is in his name. Everything is in his name—all the infinite glory of his redemptive story.”

  “You’re preaching,” Waylon said with a smile.

  “Didn’t Brother Will say you were preaching in that song? When we believe something with all our heart, we want the world to know.”

  “I’m not telling the world to believe what I believe, Jessi. I’m just saying that I do believe.”

  “But in what?”

  “In love—and the spirit of love. Isn’t that enough?”

  I paused for a second. I took a deep breath. I realized this discussion was taking the wrong turn. I saw that once again impatience was marring my outlook.

  “You know what,” I said, “love is enough. Your song is beautiful, the way you express your feelings is beautiful. You’re beautiful, Waylon, and I love you.”

  His megawatt wider-than-Texas smile said it all.

  Chapter 28

  WILL THE CIRCLE BE UNBROKEN?

  IN 1994, WAYLON AND I WERE SET TO CELEBRATE OUR twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Twenty-five years. Hard to believe. Hard to conceive of the joy I felt, knowing our bond was stronger than ever. Hard to imagine how swiftly the years had flown by. Hard to process the extreme vicissitudes we had both experienced. Hard to contain the gratitude I felt for the love and excitement this man had brought into my life.

  Our plan was to celebrate at Big Cedar, a lush wilderness resort outside of Branson, Missouri. Waylon liked my suggestion that we invite the entire extended family—all our children and their loved ones. It was a big brood, and it had been years since we’d all been together.

  There was boating, fishing, horseback riding, and hikes in the woods. In the evenings we met up at the lodge and sang songs in front of a crackling fireplace. It was a beautiful gathering.

  On the third day we were there, Waylon and I were at lunch on the veranda overlooking the woodsy landscape when he said, “I had a strange dream last night.”

  “Tell me about it, dear.”

  “It was a nightmare. I asked you to marry me and you said no.”

  “That is strange. I’d never say no.”

  “What if I asked you now?”

  “You don’t have to. If memory serves me right, it was twenty-five years ago when I said yes.”

  “But if you hadn’t said yes then, would you say yes now?”

  “Of course,” I said. “A million times over.”

  “Then
say it. Say you’ll marry me.”

  “What is this about?”

  “I’m proposing.”

  “Again?”

  “Yes, again. Jessi Colter, will you marry me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then say it.”

  “I will. I do.”

  “Great. Now go up to our room where your gown will be waiting for you.”

  Behind my back, Waylon had it all planned out. In an elaborate ceremony, presided over by surprise guest minister Will Campbell, we were to be married that night.

  Our irreplaceable assistant Maureen, who knew me as well as anyone, had ordered the dress from Neiman Marcus. Complete with veil and long train, the gown was gorgeous: designed in white satin, bejeweled with tiny pearls, and accented with delicate lace. I was breathless.

  Looking especially dashing in his custom-tailored tuxedo, Waylon escorted me to a horse-drawn carriage covered in white lilies and roses. We rode in style to an extravagantly decorated cabin where our family was waiting.

  Brother Will spoke words that warmed my heart. He spoke of the sanctity of our marriage in the name of the living God. Waylon didn’t wince. He accepted those words without reservation.

  “This is the woman who has changed my life,” he told those who had come to witness the ceremony. “This is the woman who has saved my life. And this is the woman who, with the patience of Job, has put up with more than any of us can imagine.”

  Everyone chuckled, but I was too teary-eyed to laugh.

  All I could say was, “This is the man who completes me. This is the man whose goodness radiates from the very depths of his soul.”

  That night, alone in our room, Waylon held me in his arms.

  “Happy?” he asked.

  “Overjoyed.”

  The joy that characterized the earlier Highwaymen tours began to dissipate during the final shows supporting The Road Goes On Forever. The domestic concerts were fine, but by the time we reached Thailand, which was in the throes of an AIDS epidemic, Waylon was bone-tired. He also began experiencing respiratory problems, exacerbated by the stifling pollution in Hong Kong and Singapore.

  When we arrived home, Waylon required a couple of weeks to regain his strength. Although his stamina was compromised, his creative juices kept flowing.

  In spite of his failing health, Waylon produced some of his best music—albums like The Eagle and the hilariously titled Too Dumb for New York City, Too Ugly for L.A. Reflecting on his past, he turned out the wonderful Ol’ Waylon Sings Ol’ Hank, Waymore’s Blues, Right for the Time, and Closing In on the Fire. Creatively, the fire burned brightly.

  His bond with Shooter also expanded his horizons, renewed his interest in fatherhood, and got him to thinking more about young people. We helped each other out on two separate albums we did for children—Waylon’s was Cowboys, Sisters, Rascals and Dirt; mine was Jessi Colter Sings Just for Kids: Songs from Around the World.

  A reporter came to profile me in the aftermath of my kids record. I remember that her first question startled me.

  “Where have you been?” she asked.

  I took a second to gather my thoughts before answering, “Right here in Nashville.”

  “But you haven’t been releasing records.”

  “Well, I’m releasing this one now. It’s for children of all races and religions.”

  “I’ve heard it, I like it, but I also have to ask you about having sacrificed your career.”

  I smiled and said, “I haven’t sacrificed a thing. I feel incredibly blessed. I have a beautiful life.”

  “With all due respect, I know Waylon is one of the greats. But if half of what they say about him is true, he must be a handful.”

  “He’s a blessing,” I assured her. “I look around and see nothing but blessings. And besides, if Waylon is a handful, so am I. We’re all broken vessels, aren’t we?”

  “Do you have plans to make more records?”

  “When the time is right, yes.”

  In 1998, the time was right for Waylon to get back together with our dear friend Shel Silverstein and collaborate on a lovely album they called Old Dogs. The old dogs themselves—the singers on the record—were Waylon, Bobby Bare, Mel Tillis, and Jerry Reed. Shel wrote the songs, all about aging, and the dogs sang them with the kind of sensitivity only seniority allows.

  It turned out to be one of Waylon’s last sessions and one of the most poignant of his career. And though his hunger to write, record, and perform never waned, his energy did. He grew increasingly tired. He’d been diagnosed as diabetic. Together with his history of heart disease, the inability to process blood sugar was taking a steady toll on his overall well-being. Those sleepless years of abusing his body had caught up with him.

  By the end of the decade, Waylon, only in his early sixties, was having a hard time tolerating the cold Nashville winters.

  “I’m feeling the need for warmth,” he said. “I’m missing the way it feels to be in the desert when that midday sun shines all over my face.”

  “I’m always missing Arizona,” I said.

  “Wanna go back?” he asked.

  “I’d love to. It’s home.”

  “It’s where I really got started. Where we met.”

  “The Valley of the Sun.”

  “Bring it on.”

  Chapter 29

  THIS MORTAL COIL

  I WAS THINKING OF THE BELOVED HELEN D. PERKINS JOHNSON and an old hymn the saints would sing in her church:

  I was standing by my window

  On one cold and cloudy day

  When I saw that hearse come rolling

  For to carry my mother away

  Will the circle be unbroken

  By and by, Lord, by and by

  There’s a better home a-waiting

  In the sky, Lord, in the sky1

  It wasn’t a cold and cloudy day in Paradise Valley. The sun was shining brilliantly, Waylon was napping peacefully in our bedroom, and I was seated in the den of our winter home that my dear brother Johnny had found for us overlooking the vast Arizona desert. I was drifting back into the landscape of my childhood, remembering the way Mother would artfully weave the tapestry of her sermons so that the stories were lifelike pictures for all to see: Jesus with the woman at the well; Jesus turning water to wine; Jesus calming the raging sea; Jesus healing the blind, feeding the five thousand, weeping in the garden.

  Those stories still lived in my heart and informed my mind, bringing back memories of the woman who had shaped my spirit—and the spirits of countless others—with the words she spoke and the kindness she extended. I also thought of Daddy, his wondrous mine and lifelong pursuit of minerals hidden deep beneath the earth. My precious parents, long gone, weren’t gone at all, especially here in the territory outside Phoenix where they had arrived, brave souls in search of a new life.

  A new life was what Waylon was seeking—a new life inspired by a former life, a time when he had come to Arizona, a young man who’d been traumatized by the death of his mentor Buddy Holly and yet found success and even stardom, thanks to the wild enthusiasm of the college kids who’d frequented JD’s outsized barroom.

  “There was an energy back then,” Waylon remembered, “that let me find myself. And let me be myself. I believe it was the mystical energy of the desert, that same energy I needed to kick drugs. So many good things that have happened to me happened in that desert, the best being meeting you. That desert, strange and mysterious as it is, has healing properties. Can’t explain it.”

  “You don’t have to,” I said. “The healing has already started. I can feel it.”

  The healing, as it turned out, was not physical. It was spiritual.

  As a result of diabetes, neuropathy set in, causing Waylon extreme pain all along his legs. Soon he was unable to drive.

  I took over the wheel. From Waylon’s point of view, that took some getting used to. As the daughter of a car builder, I’m a confident and relaxed driver. Waylon recognized that b
ut he also couldn’t resist backseat driving at virtually every turn. I understood. It was hard for him to give up that kind of control.

  He often asked me to drive him to the old haunts, the places—like Coolidge, Arizona—where he had lived with his first wife and children. He wanted to see scenes of his past. In viewing those scenes, he’d speak of his regrets, his shortcomings as a young man.

  “I did foolish things,” he said. “I wound up hurting myself, but mainly I hurt other people. That’s what hurts me the most now.”

  “God is forgiving,” I said.

  “God may be, but I’m not.”

  “That’s the point of prayer. We pray to be like him. We pray to forgive ourselves just as he forgives us.”

  Forgiveness is a slow process, especially with a man like Waylon who felt as though anything he achieved had to be earned by the sweat of his brow.

  There was so much I wanted to say, but I knew how words can get in the way. We’d drive into the desert at sunset and watch the world turn burnished gold. We’d simply sit there in silence, holding hands, breathing in the magnificent setting.

  Finally Waylon would say, “You talk about grace. You say it’s free. We can all have it. It’s God’s gift. Well, believing that is one thing, but feeling it—really feeling it in your heart and soul—man, that’s another thing altogether.”

  “The feeling comes when it comes,” I said.

  “I’m impatient, Jessi. You know that. When I wanted to feel a certain way, I’d pop a pill. When I wanted to feel another way, I’d snort a line. Those were feelings I could control . . . until I couldn’t. Until they controlled me. But good or bad, they were feelings I could count on. Feelings I understood. So I gotta ask you—how do you feel grace?”

  “I know it isn’t easy. It’s like finding something that’s already there. Long ago I found something Charlotte Brontë wrote in a novel I love, Jane Eyre. She wrote, ‘I need not sell my soul to buy bliss. I have an inward treasure born with me which can keep me alive if all extraneous delights should be withheld or offered at a price I cannot afford to give.’”