Ian Herbst
I used to go to church regularly with the Minihans when I was younger. Sunday's were easily my favorite day of the week at the time for a couple of reasons. First of all, John was and still is my closest friend, and I would take any excuse to spend time with him and his family. Secondly, I knew that going to church with the Minihans would almost certainly guarantee one thing -- a donut from Walmart afterwards. My fondest memory of Jim came one day after service while I was priming myself for an apple fritter, when Jim said from the front of the car there was a change of plans. I feared that the very nature of our post-service routine was about to be tampered with. "Today, we're going dumpster diving," said Jim. Not a question, a statement. I sat, waiting for him to turn around in his seat and admit he was just joking. That never happened. I don't remember very many specifics after this, my mind was most likely still troubled by the thought of all the other kids at church eating my apple fritters. What I do remember, however, is spending the next hour or so in a sea of garbage, searching for wood scraps while Jim commanded John and I like a great ship's captain from the safety of the Suburban. I don't even remember why he needed the wood scraps. It might have been around the time Jim was building the family cats' their own miniature French chateau, which would explain it. Anyways, this might not sound like an entirely pleasant experience, but there are few memories from my life fonder to me than this one. I can't even remember if I got my donut that day. I also don't recall Jim ever asking for my help in that way again, but I hope he knows I would've gladly hopped into a dumpster for him again if he had ever asked me to. I hope you're doing well, Jim, wherever you are. I'll never forget the kindness you showed me as a kid and the lessons you helped teach me as a young adult. Thank you for everything, and I hope I see you again someday.
