The Man Has Died, But His Truth Lives

A Remembrance

I fly a lot. Between clients, six children, and nearly a dozen grandkids, I’m in an airplane several times a month. And usually when I fly, I don’t want to talk to anybody. I’ve got work to do, and as soon as the wheels go up, my laptop comes out.

But sometimes the person I’m sitting next to or across from looks interesting, or maybe I’m just feeling chatty. On those days, I’ll turn to my neighbor and ask, “Have you ever heard of Zig Ziglar?”

Over the past half-century, the reach and influence of Zig Ziglar has been historic. And it doesn’t matter whether the person is in the military or works on a factory line or is the president of that factory: there’s a good chance they’ve heard what Zig had to say, and what he said was a “difference maker” in their lives.

So, three times out of five the person will say, “Heard of him? Are you kidding?! Zig Ziglar changed my life!”

Every once in a while the person will have grown up wild in the mountains where he has been living in a cave, and he doesn’t know anything about Zig. So, I’ll say, “Well, let me tell you about Zig Ziglar! Zig Ziglar is a friend of mine!”

Which is not remarkable, because there are people all over the world who think of Zig as a friend. His son Tom tells me that when Zig had a speaking engagement, he’d get to know as many of the folks who were going to be in his audience as possible, going from office to office, cubicle to cubicle, steno pool to mail room shaking hands and learning names. And years later, when called for a return engagement (which he always was), Zig could walk through the office and call secretaries and CEOs alike by their first names.

So, while I’m telling the guy next to me about “my friend Zig Ziglar,” I suspect there are several dozen other “friends” saying pretty much the same thing on airplanes around the world. And each of us believes we are his friend. More importantly, Zig did, too.

So, when his son Tom Ziglar sent out an email saying Zig had died, I got emails from dozens of people asking me if I’d heard. Some of the folks who sent the emails were even so generous as to say, “I know he was a friend of yours.”

He was. Me and millions of others who have read his books, listened to his tapes, seen his DVDs, or been privileged to watch and hear him on stage—to be in the audience when he went down on one knee, extended his hand, and in that legendary baritone as deep as the South (where he grew up poor but determined to succeed) said…well, it was such a great voice, and he was so great a man that sometimes what he was saying mattered less than his presence and his purpose. And his purpose was always the same: to help us know we can be better, happier, and filled with purpose as significant as his own.

“Now, I don’t know what you believe,” Zig would say with a wink in his eye and a twinkle in his voice, and you knew immediately he was unafraid to tell you precisely what he believed. In a world increasingly political where people hedge their bets and change their positions and opinions to suit whatever occasion, Zig was as unwavering and certain as True North. He was as committed to his Christianity as to “The Redhead” with whom he lived and loved for three quarters of his life…a love he was as vocal about as he was proud. If you went to a Zig Ziglar event of more than 15 minutes (and ALL Zig’s events lasted more than 15 minutes!) you were going to hear about “The Redhead,” his wife. And if you had the opportunity to meet her, darned if she wasn’t as pretty and sassy as he said.

The fact is, most things were as Zig said. And for that reason, most of what he told people to do actually worked! Lives changed and the world was made better because of Zig Ziglar. He never took the credit, though, referring it to the source of his inspiration and the nearly miraculous regularity with which it resulted in blessings. “Coincidence and good luck,” he would say, “are God’s way of staying anonymous.” And just as he gave credit to God, he credited the people who had influenced him in ways no less remarkable than he influenced others: people who taught him tolerance and faith and hope and confidence and, ultimately, prosperity.

But although Zig’s performances and publications made him a millionaire, Zig believed the more important profit of his many business enterprises was the benefit they were to others. Over the past decade, I’ve worked with Zig and Tom Ziglar on a string of projects. Some I got paid for, but most have been the result of lunches with Tom. The lunches always are the same: Sushi. Because in Texas, if you like sushi, you have to take whatever chance you have to get it. And in recent years—as Zig’s health and memory failed following a fall more serious than he or his family let on—that’s been true of Zig too. He became that rare opportunity when I would run into him at the Ziglar offices or catch site of him at Christmas services.

I’m not a Baptist…except at Christmas time. It’s a tradition that began a number of years ago when Zig or Tom called (the men may seem very different, but their influence is so much the same). The call was to invite my wife and me to church. Avigail was panicky. She’s Jewish and had no idea what to wear to a proper Baptist service. Nor did I. So, I called Tom, who said, “Oh, don’t worry too much. Tell her just to wear a nice Christmas sweater.” Advice that was of no help at all to a Cantor’s daughter. Because although she puts on great Christmas parties for our grandchildren, she happily admits her only education has been what she sees on TV. Nevertheless, we made it to the service where we were welcomed by The Redhead. And it was wonderful, as were the occasions when Zig would call and tell me he was teaching a subject at Sunday School he thought I’d enjoy. And I would (even though I knew the subject likely would be “Repentance”). And the occasional call on Christmas Day, which he rotated among his many, many friends and family…likely to those of us he thought needed it most.

And maybe it’s that his leave-taking has been so gradual—as were the opportunities to be with him,  rare—that I feel so little has changed with Zig’s passing. We still have his books and CDs and DVDs. And the mantel of his message has been passed to Tom Ziglar, whose style of speaking is his own although the impact of the message is much the same as Zig’s.

It’s that constancy that most impresses me now—knowing that when you got Zig Ziglar, you always knew what you were going to get: faith, hope, charity…the lessons of another gone-but-not-forgotten apostle of the possibility.

After his fall, Zig continued to present and continued to go on stage with no less conviction, power, or influence. Although his short-term memory was affected, and he sometimes repeated stories. Over lunch one day, Tom and I discussed the challenge, and I assured him: “Those of us who have heard Zig’s stories already have heard them several dozen times…and we look forward to hearing them several dozen times more!”

And that’s what I’ll miss. Because although the message he brought remains with us, the messenger is gone. And as with all great men, Zig Ziglar was as impressive in the moment as what he had to say was in time. And the pleasure of his company was as memorable as the example of his life.

So, the next time we have sushi, I’ll say to Tom: “You know, I’ve heard it at least a dozen times, but I’m not sure I remember exactly how the story about the pump handle goes. Can you tell it to me again?”

And he will. And it will all come back to me. And that will have to be enough. For this moment. Until that moment when we all are together again.