A Dearly Loved Friend

Sometimes your past comes crashing into your present reality and it always goes one of two ways.

(1) "I AM SO SCREWED!"

(2) "Well, isn't this special."

Thankfully it was the later.

At the Acoustic Jam at Doc's Bar I'm pretty mesmerized by Ricky Stokes flying fingers making magic on a guitar ... Chris Desa dripping beauty from his strings ... Clark Byron singing like the Angel he is ... Holly Campbell bringing new life to old rockers and Monty Park's acting as a benevolent jester orchestrating joy.

I love this time.

It's happiness far away from whatever's ailing you and, for a moment anyway in a collection of wonderful support, you are the Rock Star you really are.

It's all just so great but ... strolling in after an 8 hour drive from Richmond, Virginia is Bill Berry (not the former drummer for REM but the other one).

"HEY EVERYBODY!" I yell as Gregory Bell viciously attacks a Simon and Garfunkel tune, "THIS IS MY MATE BILL BERRY!"

In unison they reply, "You're not the former drummer for REM are you?"

Bill smiles, doesn't say anything while waving and sipping his beer.

Like me, he is older ... bigger ... weathered and worn with more scars than I remember ... but it's my friend.

We go way back and share incredible things no one else will ever touch try as they may to understand.

Ah, the adventures ... jumping a fence to break into Bertesgarden (Hitler's private retreat) ... him throwing me over the wall of Gethsemane with me landing on two Monks who'd taken vows of silence which they immediately break ... hitching a ride on a British tour bus at Auschwitz in Poland and walking out at night with no way back ... busted in Cuba because he forgets to give me letter from the US authorizing our visit.

I could go on.

Later, at home, Sarah wonders how true these stories are.

A staunch vegetarian, one night we're drunk in Berlin and I have to pee. Bill takes the opportunity to order a fish sandwich with cheese in McDonald's of all places ... when I exit the bathroom he's preparing to take a bite ... one hand above his head ... mouth open ... grease and cheese dripping.

"NNNOOOO," I scream rushing across the room, tackling him, ending in a twisted pile on the floor in front of German customers but ... somehow ... the fish sandwich with cheese remains in his hand ... so he looks at me ... and takes a bite.

The German authorities throw us out.

"Yeah," Bill grimaces to Sarah, "haven't had a fish sandwich since."

My wife groans and shakes her head.

Friends are one of God's greatest gifts.

Old friends ... lifelong ones ... those who shared adventures and secrets ... the ones who go for long periods without seeing each other ... even communicating ... but remain closer than brothers or sisters because they are ... well ... a Hell of a gift from God!

Most people don't have one.

I am so blessed.

Bill's here to be with Sarah and the girls, who he desperately wants to know ... he already loves them ... because I do ... and he loves me.

"You think we ever gonna do anything again?" he asks as we swim in the Ocean early in the morning, under massive purple and blue cloud formations over a flat, glassy Sea.

"At least one," I say.

Of course it could be when he does my funeral or I do his ... either way we'd enjoy it at the expense of the other.

But it'll probably be sitting on the Beach ... or around a fire on a farm outside of Richmond ... with our wives and our kids ... expanding the deep love good friends can share.

Bill's gone now but Sarah home and we've just got a weekend full of celebration planned with no real agenda.

Whatever happens happens and we'll enjoy it.

I learned how to do that a long time ago from Bill Berry ... and while he may not be the drummer from REM ... he remains my dearly loved friend.

And when you're blessed in life with a friend such as this, it's good from time to time to stop and say, "Thanks."