At the end of my season in Bible college, my Spiritual Advisor sat down with me and discussed our time together, before he signed off on my required hours of Spiritual Service. I can't remember his name, and I doubt you knew him. He was in his 30s, one of the junior pastors in a warehouse church in downtown Toronto. He was doing "Street-level ministry," which was definitely my thing — or so I'd thought, up to that point.
"I have to admit," he said, after stipulating this was meant to be heard in the spirit intended — he was speaking the truth in love, after all, as per Ephesians 4:15 — "you've been something of a disappointment."
That was fine. He'd been something of a disappointment to me, also. But by this juncture I'd become weary of speaking altogether, and didn't see any point to returning the favour of his candour.
There'd been a winter night when he and I drove to a rooming house, to check in on a young woman who'd visited the church the Sunday before. At the end of that service, she'd stood up and declared she was giving her life to Jesus this very minute. We were there to follow up on that decision.
We walked up a dark staircase, then into a hallway that smelled of urine and boiled cabbage, as well as something faintly medicinal. He knocked on the first door. The old woman who answered said she thought the girl we were after might be in the last room on the left. "She shares that room with S___," she said. "They might both be sleeping."
The room was indeed dark. It can't have been later than seven. He hesitated, then knocked.
"Come in!"
There were two twin beds in the tiny room. We'd woken up both occupants, but one of them was the girl we were after. My Spiritual Advisor mentioned her visit last Sunday, and reminded her of the announcement she'd made. She remembered, alright. But we needed to know, she said, that she was also a junkie and a prostitute. Those were simply the unassailable facts. But, if we cared to, we were welcome to pray with her before we left her room, and she returned to her lifelong vices.
When my Spiritual Advisor and I got back into his car, I saw his hands were trembling. He gripped the wheel, but this didn't help. "That was pretty scary," he said.
I was surprised. This guy had been an all-in hippie from the beginning to the end of the '70s. He'd told me he'd worked a ship to Africa, where he disembarked and hitch-hiked into the interior, before hitch-hiking out and working another ship back to Canada. Something had changed him from that guy into this guy. What, and how? We prayed again, and he calmed down enough to start the car and drive me to a subway station.
From subway to bus to the Bible college took just over an hour. I spent that time, and many years after that, wondering how this guy and I could have the Son of God in our back pockets, but no reasonable means to address our most obvious personal deficits, never mind what we had just faced in this young woman fast-tracking herself into a pine box.
So I got back to the college late, sometime after 10:00, and you were the Proctor behind the desk with the key to the door.
I signed myself back in ("SS time requirement with Spiritual Advisor") and noticed you were studying. You also had a cassette deck and were listening to Bruce Springsteen. This amazed me. It was the first I'd seen anybody in this building listen to Bruce Springsteen.
"The River," I said. "Great album."
You gave a slow nod. "Yep."
"You ever see him play?"
Another slow nod. "Three times."
"So he's as good as they say."
"Oh yeah."
"Who else you see? Anyone like him?"
"No way. Well . . . The Ramones, in a way. They're different, but you still get that, 'I can't believe this' feeling.
And so began a conversation about the unacknowledged Lords of Rock 'n' Roll.
A conversation that came to mind this weekend, when I drove to the lake and met with the usual gang of idiots from our Alma Mater. We went through the standard "Where are they now?" routine. Somehow your name came up, and I was shocked to hear you'd died. Was it the slow, impersonal dismantling of cancer? The sudden hot reaving of a traffic incident? Either way, it had been so long ago, nobody could quite recall. Cancer seemed likely.
It was the only conversation you and I ever had — the only one I can remember, at any rate. But the recollection of it as I returned home from the lake was enough to set my own hands trembling, so much so that I had to pull over and stop. I got out of the car, and spent a few minutes facing the water and the wind.
We were kids back then. And it wasn't even a full hour of rock 'n' roll chit-chat. But it was enough.
The world didn't seem quite so insane. I felt less alone.
It was a gift.
You should be acknowledged for it, man. You should know.
You should be remembered.
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