Read time: 4 min.

Yesterday morning, tragic news cut through my commute as I crossed over I-69 on my way to work. Indiana Public Radio reported that a Delaware County Sheriff’s Deputy had been fatally struck by a semi in the early hours, just four miles up the road. The news was heartbreaking on its own, but the weight of it didn’t land until later, when I learned the victim’s name: it was Blake Reynolds, an old friend and bandmate of mine. 

About a decade ago, I was the drummer in a hard rock band that bounced around venues across the Indianapolis area. Like a lot of local music groups, our lineup shifted more than once. Eventually, a few of the guys splintered off to start a new project. I loved the spark Brad, Jimmy, and Brad’s wife, Cassie, were chasing, so I jumped in with the plan to play drums in both bands. Not long after we started jamming, someone else walked through the door to join us on guitar: Blake Reynolds.

Blake was a few years younger than me, but we clicked right away. He showed up with an Epiphone Les Paul, a sharp knack for chicken pickin’, and a deep knowledge of the same classic rock tunes I’d grown up with. More than that, he was a genuinely good guy. Blake was easy to laugh with -easy to be around- and we spent countless evenings jamming and hanging out at Brad and Cassie’s place, eating cheap pizza and building up songs and friendships in equal measure.

As our sound evolved, I found myself trading my drumsticks for a cajon more often than I liked. I wound up stepping away on good terms, but the band moved forward with a new drummer, new tracks, and new shows. Blake stayed with the group for as long as life allowed, but once he joined the National Guard and later the local sheriff’s department, his free time grew pretty thin.

After I left eight the band, Blake and I drifted out of each other’s orbit as life pulled us in different directions. I never spoke to him again. Now, of course, I wish I had.

Here’s what happened to my old friend and bandmate early Wednesday morning, as reported by several news outlets: overnight, Corporal Blake Reynolds stopped to help a stranded semi-truck driver whose rig was partially blocking the roadway. While Blake was outside of his vehicle, a northbound truck lost control, slammed into his car, and then struck the stranded semi.

Blake was caught in the impact. Emergency crews responded as fast as they could, but not in time to save him.

Late yesterday morning, a long line of law enforcement vehicles escorted the hearse carrying Blake’s body to a mortuary in downtown Muncie. People gathered along the streets standing in silent salute as the procession rolled past. By afternoon, a Sheriff’s cruiser sat parked outside the courthouse, its windshield draped in black bunting, a wreath resting against the bumper. A black band lay across the sheriff’s star on the door. 

I’m grieving Blake, even though part of me feels like I’m the least qualified to. He touched so many lives -family, friends, and fellow deputies- and I was just a guy who played in a band with him for maybe six months a long time ago. Still, I knew him well enough to know this: it was exactly like Blake Reynolds to help someone who was in danger. Blake was a stand-up guy, and a servant’s mentality was at his core.

Life feels twisted sometimes, especially when someone who lived right and did things to make the world safer died in such a senseless way. Things shouldn’t happen like that.

Blake Reynolds had just gotten married in June. He was only thirty-one when he passed.