The Quiet Wisdom of Jim: A Tribute to a Remarkable Life Well Lived

A story from the heart about a true friend by Ray Collins.

Back in the early 1980s, I flew down to Ft. Lauderdale during college Thanksgiving break to spend the holiday weekend with my sister.  Janet was dating–and later married—Jim, a tall, balding doctor with tortoise-shell glasses who was 22 years her senior. 

I remember us walking to the car after dinner when we witnessed a fistfight erupt a hundred yards away involving several aggressors and one recipient. Jim immediately ran over to break up the scrum and then tended to the victim. Though that spoke volumes about his character and made a heck of a first impression–that’s not what made him special.

Over the next 40 years, I learned it wasn’t just what Jim said, it was as much what he didn’t say.  He wasn’t prone to small talk or that nervous laughter that is draining to be around.  He was calm, low-key, and spoke slowly in a deep, rich voice with a slight twang from Southern Indiana. To paraphrase that old advertising slogan, “When Jim spoke, people listened.” He was economical with his words, but often profound.  He said, “Good communication isn’t saying everything on your mind.  It’s as much knowing what not to say.”  He also said he was quiet in groups because most people usually would rather talk than listen.

I found him exhilarating if not challenging to be around.  He made me raise my game. I couldn’t resort to shallow patter, gossip, or who would win the Super Bowl. He was also a good listener who would never interrupt, but more importantly, he wouldn’t judge either; the kind of person you could trust behind your back.

I recall taking him to a “budget-friendly” golf course in the 1990s.  He loved it and fit right in. “Hey, this is great, thanks for bringing me here,” he said.  Afterwards, we drank beer from plastic cups at a picnic table with some of the other golfers we met that day.  They didn’t know he was a successful doctor, chief of staff at a prominent South Florida hospital, or the team psychiatrist for the Miami Dolphins. They just knew him as some guy named “Jim.”  And that was fine with him.   

A few weeks ago, Jim’s college in Tennessee named a building after him, but sadly, he was too weak to attend the dedication ceremony.  He passed away a brief time later at the age of ninety-two.  He was still helping patients until the final two years.

The crowded church memorial service was straight from a Hallmark movie. It was a celebration of a life well-lived by every measure. He and my sister traveled to all seven continents and, along the way, raised three impressive kids, each of whom gave glowing eulogies about their father.  Fellow doctors, patients, and friends filled the pews on a sunny Saturday afternoon in late November. It was hard not to tear up—not from sadness, but rather happiness for having known such an extraordinary man.

Poet Maya Angelou said, “I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

Jim always made me feel good.

Ray Collins is a Sarasota-based Global Luxury Realtor, Travel Writer and former TV news anchor.  

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