by Jessi Colter
“An inward treasure,” Waylon repeated.
“It’s there,” I said. “We have to be still enough, quiet enough, faithful enough to find it.”
“Or let it find us.”
“Amen.”
A new millennium arrived. Shooter, now twenty-one, left Nashville for Los Angeles to pursue a music career of his own. Waylon, who had lovingly guided him since infancy, knew that our son was well prepared. He gave his blessing. At the same time, he felt it was time to give up Southern Comfort and permanently move to Arizona. The desert kept calling.
We bought a comfortable house in Chandler with a calm ambience and enchanting views. Waylon’s health worsened but his spirit stayed strong. I never saw fear in his eyes. I saw determination—not to live forever but to live each day fully. Loving people surrounded us. A neighbor, a former FBI hostage negotiator, became one of Waylon’s best late-life buddies. They spent hours entertaining each other with stories of their wild adventures.
Jenny Lynn Hollowell, a wonderful cellist and a fiddler, was another great spirit who’d come by and play her enchanting music, filling the house with joy. Our faithful friend Maureen came from Nashville as well as Coach James Denver Burke. Maureen had met Coach when she taught at Tennessee Preparatory School. He ran their athletic program and took one of his teams, named after Waylon, to a state championship. Coach came to work with us as security but soon became one of Waylon’s most trusted confidants. When we moved to Chandler, Coach was an essential member of our household staff.
That staff was small. Waylon did not want to be around strangers, only friends. He didn’t want pity or even sympathy, only love. Some of the strongest love came from Dulcie Zaccheus, the woman whose Wayside Ministry we had supported for years. Waylon greatly respected and recognized her for what she was: the living spirit of Christ Jesus. Calling from California, Dulcie would speak to Waylon at great length, although she knew he was still not ready to utter the words I yearned to hear.
Waylon grew weaker. The diabetes, the heart condition, the neuropathy—the ailments—continued. The physical complications were enormous. We were in and out of hospitals. We spent time at the Mayo Clinic in Scottsdale. We consulted specialists of every sort. Waylon had to use a wheelchair to travel any real distance. At one point one foot had to be amputated at the ankle.
Amazingly, inspiringly, he accepted this deterioration without a trace of rancor. His inner strength was still mighty.
Jokingly, he’d say things like, “Looks like they’re finally cutting me down to size.”
I marveled how in his present condition this larger-than-life giant of a man could still laugh at himself, still find the energy to express love to all those who comforted him, still caress his guitar, still sing songs.
He had dreams but not nightmares. Some of those dreams, he said, were beautiful. A friend referred me to Hamlet’s famous soliloquy where he reflects:
To die, to sleep.
To sleep, perchance to dream; aye, there’s the rub,
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause.2
In his final months, Waylon did pause. Fully aware that he was facing his mortality, he looked death squarely in the face and did not blink. If anything, he became more curious, more openhearted.
During the Thanksgiving holiday of 2001, I took him to the hospital for still more procedures, none of which helped stem the downward spiral.
My heart told me that this was the moment he was ready to accept the Lord. But my heart had told me that before, and I had moved too quickly. Because my zeal had overwhelmed my sensitivity in the past, I didn’t want to make the same mistake again. And yet my heart was insistent. My heart said, “Now is the time. Speak your truth.”
As I looked at Waylon in the hospital bed, my heart was pounding.
“Looks like you want to say something to me, darlin’,” he observed. “If you’ve got something to say, go ahead and say it.”
Waylon sensed what was happening. He always did.
I took a deep breath and said the words. “Are you ready to accept the Lord?”
Waylon smiled. “I knew you were gonna ask that.”
“It’s a simple question,” I said. “It all comes down to one thing, Waylon. Are you ready to be God’s man?”
He nodded his head and kept repeating the phrase, “God’s man, God’s man.”
“And to become God’s man, what are the words I need to say?” Waylon asked.
“The words are that you accept him, that you love him as he loves you, that you turn your life over to him.”
Waylon said those words. And when he did, I thought of the two words expressed in John 11:35: “Jesus wept.”
I wept.
Waylon smiled.
He called me over to his bedside, took my hand, and said, “I love you so much.”
He had declared his love for me a million times before, but this time his tone was so vulnerable, so soft, so sweet. He spoke with a sincerity that thrilled my heart. He spoke not only as my husband but, for the first time, as my brother in Christ.
Later that day Dulcie called to speak with him. During the course of their conversation, she asked Waylon to speak his confession of Christ, and he did so without hesitation. His commitment to God was absolute.
The Christmas season was upon us. Valiantly, Waylon pressed on. He rested during the days and asked that I drive him through the desert at night. He simply wanted to see the stars and breathe the air. He wasn’t boisterous but he wasn’t gloomy. He spoke about his past, his parents, his childhood in Littlefield, his early infatuation with music. His children came to visit him. His friends rallied around. He’d ask me to sing the church hymns I had learned as a little girl. He and Coach talked about sports. He and Dulcie discussed the Lamb of God.
“I’m feeling confident,” he said on New Year’s Day 2002. “My body might be deserting me, but my soul is sound.”
I loved hearing the word confident.
Despite the oxygen masks and tanks and the sundry medical apparatuses that would seem to destroy all confidence, his confidence remained intact. It was a new confidence, though—not the confidence of a superstar about to run up onstage to the cheers of a hundred thousand fans, but the quiet confidence of someone now calling himself “God’s man.”
February 13 was an ordinary day.
Coach and Waylon had plans to watch the Winter Olympics. I had plans to visit the chiropractor. After my appointment, I hurried home to make Waylon his daily treat, a big protein shake. When I arrived, Waylon was asleep—or at least appeared to be. But when I went to kiss his forehead, I detected no breath. I called to Coach, who was in the next room. He ran in and gave Waylon CPR. It was too late. Waylon had already made his transition. He had slipped into the other side of time.
The paramedics arrived and asked me to leave. I refused. I stayed and prayed in the Spirit: “God, this is your time. Whatever you decree, I accept. I know you can raise him up. If that’s the testimony you want from me, I’ll give it. But if you have already sent angels to receive him, amen. Your will be done.”
I gave thanks to God Almighty for Waylon and for our time together.
I gave thanks to God for his salvation.
I gave thanks to God for his grace.
For his love.
For the blessing of this life.
And for life eternal.
Chapter 30
OUT OF THE ASHES
IT TOOK A LONG TIME TO RECOVER—A LONG, LONG TIME.
I was exhausted. I was numb. I hadn’t realized the amount of energy I had devoted to Waylon’s care. I hadn’t considered the amount of anxiety I had been dealing with. Emotionally, I was drained.
Minister Will Campbell presided at the small service held at the mortuary. Connie Smith sang “Amazing Grace.” I sang “Storms Never Last.” Brother Will praised God for every good thing.
According
to Waylon’s wishes, we buried him in the Mesa cemetery near the graves of my mother and father. The tombstone, adorned with a picture of a smiling Waylon and his flying “W” logo, read:
WAYLON JENNINGS
JUNE 15, 1937–FEBRUARY 13, 2002
I AM MY BELOVED’S
MY BELOVED IS MINE.
A LOVING SON, HUSBAND, FATHER, AND GRANDFATHER.
A VAGABOND DREAMER,
A RHYMER AND SINGER OF SONGS.
A REVOLUTIONARY IN COUNTRY MUSIC
Later that day, I returned to the graveside. I wanted to be alone with Waylon. When I arrived, though, I saw that I would not be alone. An old man was standing in front of the tombstone. He was holding a stack of Waylon’s albums in his arms. He had placed a boombox on the ground that was playing Waylon’s greatest hits, “Honky Tonk Heroes,” “I Ain’t Living Long Like This,” and “Lonesome, On’ry and Mean.” His eyes were filled with tears as he placed the LPs on the grave.
When he turned and noticed me, he didn’t register surprise. It was as though he expected me.
He said, “When I got back from Vietnam, he helped me. When I got divorced, he helped me. He helped me when I lost my job and he helped me when I lost my oldest son. He’s always helped me.”
“And he always will,” I said, as I took the man’s hand and stood there while Waylon sang “Women Do Know How to Carry On.”
I did carry on. In March, with strong support from Shooter, I organized a memorial concert at the Ryman Auditorium in Nashville. We called it “I’ve Always Been Crazy: A Celebration of the Life and Legacy of Waylon Jennings.” Our good friend, disc jockey Carl Mayfield, was the emcee. Shooter opened the show with his father’s favorite, “I’ve Always Been Crazy.” Kris Kristofferson sang “I Do Believe.” Charley Pride sang “Good Hearted Woman.” Hank Jr. sang his own “Eyes of Waylon.”
Tributes poured in from everyone—from Neil Diamond to Kid Rock. Brother Will Campbell delivered a heartfelt eulogy, saying, “Waylon was a renegade, an outlaw, a man of faith, and a man of music. He was ministering all these years, and his ministries go on. We bid him godspeed with the words of another bard, ‘Good night, sweet prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.’”
With the memorial service behind me, I returned to Arizona and ultimately settled on a comfortable ranchette on the Sonoran Desert north of Scottsdale. Thanks to Waylon’s foresight and the specificity of his will, I had no financial stress.
In the beginning, I found the company of other widows critically important. I needed to hear their stories of grief and loss. I needed to learn their strategies for emotional survival. I needed role models to show me the way forward.
My family invited me on a fly fishing trip, but I declined. I didn’t want to miss my weekly visits to Waylon’s grave where I placed fresh flowers. I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want to do anything. But fortunately my family wouldn’t take no for an answer, and I found myself at Lees Ferry in Glen Canyon, just below the Arizona-Utah border at the base of the Colorado River, not far from the Grand Canyon. The setting overwhelmed me: the copper slate rocks, the blue-green river, the clean crisp air. I found healing in nature, though the healing of my heart remained a slow, slow process.
For the first time in my adult life, I was living alone. After all, I was nineteen when I married Duane and twenty-six when I married Waylon. I had no familiarity with a solitary life. And although I saw myself as a singer and songwriter, I had primarily seen myself as a wife and mother. Now that both my children, Jennifer and Shooter, were grown and on their own, and now that Waylon was gone, where did that leave me? Without Waylon to care for—to fret over, to pray over, to cherish and love—where would I direct my energy? I felt that half of me had died while half of me had lived.
I turned to prayer for solace. And, as always, prayer helped. I read and reread the Psalms, hearing an ancient musicality in the poetry of praise. Another sort of music helped enormously—the songs and singing of Ben Harper. I heard his Will to Live album, with songs like “Widow of a Living Man” and “I Shall Not Walk Alone,” as a clarion call. I heard Ben calling me back to make music of my own.
From that call came Out of the Ashes, the album that marked my return as a recording artist. Don Was, the most sensitive of producers, said at the outset, “I want the majority of the cuts to be your original songs. I want this record to reflect the true you—what you’re thinking and what you’re feeling.”
I had old songs and I had new songs. Songs are always rattling around my head, but I knew I had to start out prayerfully. So I began with “His Eye Is on the Sparrow.” I also knew I wanted to feel comfortable in the studio. What a remarkable pleasure it was to reconnect with Jim Horn, the saxophonist who had played on my early singles when we were both teenagers! Waylon’s longtime drummer Richie Albright made the date along with master musicians like guitarist Reggie Young and his cellist wife, our dear friend Jenny Lynn Hollowell. I worked especially closely with Ray Herndon, a great picker and vocalist with whom I wrote “You Can Pick ’Em,” a song that sounded like a throwback to those early days when I was spitting out songs to help me deal with Waylon.
There was the one from Memphis
There was that one from West LA
But the one from New Orleans
She tried to put you in your grave
There was the one from Texas
Lord, she made you squirm
But the one from Arizona
Left you no soul at all
You can pick ’em, baby
But you know it’s against the law
Imagery for another song, “The Phoenix Rises,” came from my trip to Lees Ferry.
New beginnings are so hard to find
New beginnings are mountains to climb
Blue sky over the horizon
But the sheer cliffs of copper pierce my mind
Emerald-green rivers speak quietly
And the black nights bring stars in my eyes
Outta the ashes, the Phoenix rises
I found a track of a song by Tony Joe White that had both Tony Joe and Waylon’s voices on it. I added my own as well as the stirring choir of the Greater Apostolic Christ Temple. The theme fit perfectly: “Out of the Rain.”
I created love scenarios that both did and did not reflect my present state of mind. I called one “Never Got Over You.”
These empty arms of desire, baby
Stayed open way too long
But I feel like I’m goin’ crazy
But my love rages on
I’m not sure you’ve gotta heart, baby
Never seen love you make
You didn’t think I’d go there
But you lead me all the way
I will never get over you
Other songs expressed my renewed desire for a romantic connection and what I termed “So Many Things”:
So many things stand between us
Your heart and mine have touched this time
Our eyes can see us
Some bright blue autumn morning
Some wintery moonlight night
You’ll reach for me and I’ll come
Touch me, hold me like you do
Shooter’s musical career had really begun to soar. Now, for the first time, we wrote a song together and sang it as a duet. It was important that it come as the record’s last cut because, in the final analysis, “Please Carry Me Home” is a prayer.
When the bloodcurdlin’ scream of the fear in my veins
Pierces the darkness circlin’ my brain
When the pain in my soul is too great to explain
I reach out for you, I’m callin’ Your name
Lord, please have mercy on my troubled soul
You keep me together when there’s nothing to hold
Lord, please have mercy, I’ve nowhere to go
When the temptation is over, please carry me home
Out of the Ashes, released in 2006, was warmly received by critics and fans.
It was cathartic, a release from my pent-up pain and a declaration of my status, both old and new, as a working artist.
I was back. And it was music that helped bring me back. Today my passion for music is as strong as ever. I especially love the bold and ever-changing music made by my son, Shooter. A few years back he released the brilliant Waylon Forever, a reshaping of the tracks that Shooter, at age sixteen, had cut with Waylon in 1995. With his band—the .357s—Shooter gave these old songs new and ingenious vitality. I am equally proud of my daughter Jennifer’s musical talent, both as a gifted singer and as a skilled writer.
In 2014 I put out another record, Live from Cain’s Ballroom, documenting a show I put on in Tulsa. The promoters billed me as “The First Lady of Outlaw Country”—a rubric that may not be all that accurate, but I’ll take it for whatever it’s worth. I had a ball that night and was especially delighted when Shooter came up and joined me on “Out of the Rain” and “Please Carry Me Home.”
In 2016 I was delighted to appear on a televised tribute to Waylon and sing “Storms Never Last” with Kris Kristofferson. In turn, it was a double delight to honor Kris at his big tribute show in 2016 at the Bridgestone Arena in Nashville, where I was privileged to interpret one of his greatest compositions, “The Captive.”
My most recent musical adventure involves the Psalms. Working with Lenny Kaye, Patti Smith’s longtime guitarist and cowriter of Waylon’s memoirs, I have approached these consecrated texts, these songs of David, with great reverence and respect. We have put them in a musical setting that, I pray, retains all their divine power. There is little ornamentation. My aim is to allow these blessed songs of praise to cry out now, as they have cried out for centuries, even as I first heard their faithful cry in my mother’s church. The record will soon be released by Sony, and my dream is to travel to Israel, stay at the King David Hotel, and perform them in a sacred venue in the holy city of Jerusalem.