Today we said goodbye to a dear friend—one of the very first we met when we moved to Mobile a decade ago. Charlie Lyles wasn’t loud or flashy, but his presence carried weight. The kind of weight that comes from a life spent lifting others up.
Charlie had a gentle way about him. He never spoke an unkind word about anyone, always seeing the good first. He had a servant’s heart—steady, humble, and full of grace. At our car club meetings, he’d light up talking about engines or chrome details only he noticed, and he’d always bring along the biggest, most beautiful tomatoes you’ve ever seen—grown with the same care and patience he gave to everything.
When the world shut down during the pandemic, Charlie opened his gates to us. “Pick whatever you want,” he said, pointing to the fruit trees in his yard. It wasn’t just fruit—it was hope, kindness, and a reminder that we weren’t alone.
At our fish fry fundraiser, he never hesitated. First to show up, last to leave. He brought more supplies than we could count—and never asked for a thing in return. That was Charlie. Always giving, never expecting.
Some people love loudly. Others, like Charlie, love in silence—through small, generous acts that ripple deeper than words ever could.
His absence leaves a quiet ache, but his love—his steady, beautiful way of being—will stay with us always.
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