David Andrews
Some friendships arrive quietly yet somehow feel as though they were always meant to be.
About a year and a half ago, I moved across the way from Alan. Before long we realized something that made us both smile — what were the odds that two single guys, close in age, both a little lonely, would end up living right across from each other? Alan liked to say it wasn’t coincidence at all. “We met for a reason,” he would tell me. I believe he was right.
Many evenings were spent sitting out on my patio with cups of coffee, talking long into the night. Our conversations wandered everywhere — life, stories, laughter — but often they returned to something we both held dear: our faith in Christ. Alan was a true believer, and those conversations meant a lot to me.
Alan loved life’s little adventures. Once a month he would make the drive to the big casino in Oklahoma, proudly saying it was the largest around. He’d laugh and tell me how he knew everyone there, from the manager on down, and how they always treated him with respect. Those trips were his way of adding a little fun to life.
He also had a way of telling stories that could make any evening memorable. One time he told me about a date where he promised the woman he’d take her somewhere she’d never been before. She told him she’d seen just about everything in life. Alan took her to the Red River to hunt for Indian artifacts. Before long she was wading through the water looking for pieces of history, laughing and saying it was one of the best times she’d ever had — and no, she had never done that before.
Artifacts fascinated him. He had an incredible knowledge of Indian history and had built quite a collection over the years. The same curiosity carried over into stones and minerals — he knew so much about them that he could probably have passed for a gemologist.
Alan also had a deep love for comedy, especially the show Seinfeld. He would laugh, quote scenes, and sometimes invent his own storylines as if he were writing for the show himself. His sense of humor was contagious.
Behind that humor, though, Alan carried pain. He once told me about a seven-hour surgery he endured during his military years, something that left him with lasting discomfort. Yet he rarely complained. Instead, he chose laughter, conversation, and connection with others.
And Alan could talk to anyone. A stranger nearby would quickly become part of the conversation. He had that rare gift of making people feel welcome simply by being himself.
I will truly miss those quiet evenings on the patio, the coffee, the laughter, and the long conversations about life and faith.
Alan believed people come into our lives for a reason. I’m grateful that, for a season, he was my neighbor and my friend.
Rest in peace, Alan. You will be missed.
