It was Thanksgiving—his last one. Waylon Jennings lay in a hospital bed, worn down by diabetes, heart disease, and years of hard living. Jessi Colter had carried a question in her heart for decades. That day, she knew she could no longer wait.
“Are you ready to be God’s man?” she finally asked.
But the road to that moment had been long, complicated, and marked by love, addiction, faith, and patience.
Two Very Different Beginnings
When Jessi first met Waylon in the 1960s at an Arizona nightclub, she had drifted far from the faith of her childhood. Raised by a preacher mother who led tent revivals, Jessi once played hymns on the piano. But as an adult, she found herself drawn to the philosophy of Ayn Rand—self-reliance over surrender, human will over divine guidance.
Waylon’s upbringing in dirt-poor West Texas had shaped him differently. Religion, to him, had felt like fear—fire and brimstone sermons warning of hell. By the time they met, he had walked away from church.
On their first date, driving through the Painted Desert, they spoke openly about belief. Waylon admitted he still believed in “something greater,” but he wasn’t ready to define it. Jessi, though no longer practicing, still remembered the language of faith.
Music bound them together. So did something deeper—an unspoken recognition that both were searching.
The Shadow of Addiction
Jessi loved Waylon’s strength, charisma, and honesty. But she could not ignore his dependence on amphetamines and, later, cocaine. Pills fueled his relentless touring life and outlaw image. Albums like Ladies Love Outlaws only reinforced the persona.
She prayed quietly. Waited patiently. She understood something crucial: no sermon, no intervention, no outside pressure would change him. Waylon would have to choose it himself.
In 1984, he finally did.
They retreated to a rented house in the Arizona desert, canceling shows and shutting out the world. The withdrawal was brutal. Every bone in his body screamed. But Jessi stayed—praying, present, steady. Somehow, through sheer determination and faith, Waylon quit drugs and remained sober for the rest of his life.
Jessi never claimed his method as a model for others. She simply thanked God it worked.
The Cost of the Past
Sobriety could not erase years of damage. At 51, Waylon underwent quadruple bypass surgery. He battled chronic pain and complications. They moved back to Arizona, seeking warmth and peace.
In quiet desert drives, Waylon reflected on regrets. “I did foolish things,” he admitted. “I hurt people.”
“God is forgiving,” Jessi told him.
“God may be,” he replied softly, “but I’m not.”
The Thanksgiving Conversation
That final Thanksgiving, the moment came.
“Are you ready to accept the Lord?” Jessi asked.
Waylon smiled. He had expected the question. She made it simple: “Are you ready to be God’s man?”
He repeated the phrase slowly—“God’s man.” Then he asked what he needed to say. Jessi told him: accept Jesus, turn your life over, receive His love.
Waylon said the words.
Jessi wept.
It wasn’t the swagger of the outlaw star. It was something quieter. Softer. A surrender not to fame or audience, but to faith.
That Christmas, surrounded by family, Waylon asked Jessi to play hymns from her childhood. Oxygen tanks and medical equipment filled the room, but there was peace. A new confidence replaced the old bravado.
The Final Goodbye
On February 13, 2002, Waylon planned to watch the Winter Olympics. Jessi left briefly and returned to find him asleep—or so she thought. When she kissed his forehead, it was cold. He had passed quietly.
Waylon Jennings was gone. But not entirely.
His music remains. His influence echoes through country music history. And in Jessi’s heart, the transformation mattered most—not the outlaw image, not the sold-out arenas, but the man who, at the end, chose to be “God’s man.”
Jessi believes God had been working all along—through the desert withdrawal, the operating rooms, the long years of waiting.
And on that Thanksgiving day, the waiting was over.