By Victor E. Mowery
November 17, 2013
We were going up to Cameron, Bobby said. "Let's go!" Bobby T. had just bought a car, and that's the very first place he wanted to go in it. And I was the only one he wanted to take along. Or maybe I was just the only other one in our crowd not scheduled to work at our fast food jobs that summer day before our senior year.
It was a nice car for a teenager, a twenty-year old Ford LTD like my Grandpa always drove. In fact, it had been my Grandpa's, until a few hundred dollars changed hands the day before. Now it was ours. Or at least it was Bobby's, but it sort of felt like mine too, seeing as how it was my Grandpa and my gas money. But that's what you do with your best bud, you support his dream to "go home" for a visit, even if you're paying the bill.
Cameron felt like home to Bobby for some reason. Actually, the way he talked, it was more like Heaven. "Dude, we're going home, Brother-Man!" At least that's what it sounded like he said with all four electric windows rolled down at 65 miles per hour and the radio blaring. "We" he had said, though I had never been there or even heard of Cameron before that day. But if it was home to him, it could be home to me, at least for the day. Again, that's how you support your best bud's dream.
This was my first road trip without my parents and it gave me a weird set of feelings. Partly I felt guilty, like I shouldn't enjoy so much being so far from home without adults, and screaming farther away at more than a mile a minute. Partly I felt free, like if we wanted to, we could just keep going north all the way to Canada or turn left right here for California. Partly I felt the same kind of apprehension of the first day in a new school: who will I meet and what will they be like? But mostly I just felt normal. And normal is a weird feeling for me, because it comes along so rarely. I felt like a normal human being with a normal friend doing a normal thing that people normally do. Like I said, weird, right? Well, it was for me anyway.
I wasn't quite sure who we were going to visit in Cameron. Bobby's plans were not that concrete. As it turns out, we got off the exit ramp, turned right to head into town, and it seemed to me that we stopped at the very first house we saw. A few silent worries immediately jumped into my mind. Are we just going to start here and knock on doors down Main Street until he finds somebody he knows? Or does he know everybody in town and plan to visit them all, starting at this house? Either plan I would not have put past him to try. "Dude, Home!" was all he said, wistfully, as he shoved the gear shifter into PARK and turned off the big V-8.
I followed Bobby around the side to the home's large back yard, where we found a fortyish man, his wife and a few small kids variously lounging and playing. A spark of recognition lit every face and hugs and handshakes all around introduced me to Rick and his family.
Apparently Rick had been an older mentor, guide and friend to Bobby at a time of turmoil in his younger life. But then again, when in Bobby's seventeen years had there not been turmoil? He always needed a mentor and rarely had one, it seemed to me. But this Rick had been one for a significant time in years past. They'd played guitar together, shot archery and guns, hunted and fished together. Rick had coached Bobby almost to a state archery title. And yet I had not before heard of this man who was so influentual in my best friend's life.
It wasn't long before the small talk, chit-chat and catching up on the years of separation had passed. Then the bows and arrows came out. To my surprise, Bobby pulled his own compound bow out of the green Ford's trunk. So he had planned ahead and even packed for this trip? That guy will always surprise you most just when you think you have him figured out.
My image of bows and arrows involved The Dukes of Hazzard. You remember Bo and Luke Duke? They were convicted felons on TV who were not allowed to have guns, so instead they used bows with dynamite sticks on the tips of their arrows. Apparently that's way less dangerous than guns, so it's perfectly legal for ex-cons to use when they need some firepower. At least that's the law in Hazzard County. And that was my limited knowledge of bows and arrows.
As Rick led the way to the back edge of his fenced acre, my eyes were scanning the meadow for the outhouse that we were no doubt going to explode with a dynamite-tipped arrow. All I saw instead was a hay bale with a paper target fastened. "How boring," I almost said out loud.
They passed the time shooting the breeze, shooting the hay and shooting off their mouths with bragging, betting and friendly trash-talk competition. Bobby was good, but he didn't seem like state champ material to me. But then again, he was out of practice. I didn't say anything.
As for Rick, I could tell that this unexpected visit was a highlight in his life at the time. Even in the short time we spent together, something told me that he was not doing so great. Something was eating at him and maybe it was his own turn to need a mentor in a time of turmoil. But for a few hours that day, he did enjoy reliving the past.
We went into the house to visit just a while longer before we left, and it was there that I saw the record album that brings all this back to memory after more than two decades. It was an album by my favorite old band, but strangely I had never even heard of this record before. This entire day had just been one surprise after another.
I mentioned the album to Rick and his face lit up as we discussed it. With the boldness that only a teenage city boy has, I asked this near stranger if I could borrow the record and take it to my home sixty miles away.
I saw the flash of pain in Rick's eyes at my request. It was an unfamiliar expression to me then, but I have seen it many times since: when a drunk has his bottle taken away or any cripple his crutch; when a junky's stash is found and destroyed; when the government shuts down and welfare moms are on the local TV news frantic that their precious babies are going to starve. It is a look or a tone of voice that's part fear, part haughty indignation at being put upon, and a lot of realization of just how big a change is really coming. That's the look I saw on Rick's face when I asked to borrow the only vinyl record he still had sitting on a shelf full of compact discs.
Of course Rick was going to say no to my request. How could I even ask to borrow that album? How would I bring it back? Before he could stammer out a reply that wouldn't hurt my feelings, his wife intervened. "Sure you can borrow it," she said to me, though she was looking directy at him. She was nodding her head in such a way as to lead him to do the same. He looked hurt and betrayed, but he nodded and made me promise to bring it back. We said our goodbyes and got in the car.
On our way back home I looked over the album cover while Bobby set the cruise control. "1970," I said. "The same year as this old car." There wasn't a single song title on the whole album that I recognized. And this was my favorite band! How could I have missed this album when I owned ten others by them?
Once home, I listened to the album on my record player and I promptly put it away on the shelf. I wanted to like it, but the music and lyrics were so dark, kind of a downer. Still, it pulled you out of that by the end of side two. Not in a feel-good way, just kind of like somebody commiserating with you. Only I wasn't depressed that day and didn't need anybody commiserating with me, least of all this band that made such happy music I enjoyed on their other albums.
Nevertheless, when I ended up on a bummer some time later, I found myself pulling out this album. And again later. And a few months later. Or weeks. Or days. I would listen to it all the way through every time I was in the dumps. And every time, I thought, We need to make a run up to Cameron and give the guy his album back. But I just couldn't. I needed it, I thought. I need it when I feel bad. I need this music. Not because it makes me feel better, but just because it makes me feel like I can go on, continue through the pain.
I always intended to take the album back. Maybe after the next time I listen to it. Or the time after that.
And then Bobby got the news through a mutual friend in Cameron: Rick had committed suicide.
I put the album away and rarely looked at it again. Ten years passed. Then one day a lifetime of fundamentalist preaching finally took hold in my heart. The Bible was clear to me one day that there are things that honor my Saviour and things that don't, and that principle extends to every area of life including music. I had heard it since childhood, but it finally made sense in a way I could not deny the work of God upon me.
I started going through my hundreds of records, cassette tapes and CDs, to purge my shelves of any music that did not please Jesus Christ. And then I saw Rick's record and GUILT welled up inside me.
GUILTY ! GUILTY ! GUILTY !
The man was in turmoil. His lips said to take the record but his face pleaded with me not to, though I didn't recognize it at the time. That record was his artificial crutch in times of despair, just like it had become for me at one point. I took his album and he didn't have it when he needed it. Could I have taken it back to him in time to prevent his suicide? Did he kill himself because I had the only thing in his life that got him through the tough times?
I was paralyzed with GUILT. How much was I to blame? Was Rick's suicide my fault?
While I was burning my music in the back yard, I was making vows to God about certain things being in my past, for good. And it struck me then: Rick needed Jesus.
He didn't need this album in his despair, he needed Christ. Even when I had leaned on this music for a crutch, it did nothing for me that Christ could've done, would've done. I should have looked unto Jesus. And so should others.
I am a frail human being and I will make mistakes, but that doesn't put on me the blame for other people's actions. They should be looking unto Jesus. I can't control what others will do or not do. I am only responsible for myself. I will give an account for my failures, and even for my dealings with others, but not for any others' reactions to me.
All this hit me in my back yard as the acrid black smoke stung my eyes. Was it tears I felt as I thought about this freedom from guilt? I have plenty to be ashamed of myself, but I don't have to plead guilty for anybody else's actions.
Rick's suicide is on him (may God have mercy on him). I have no idea what the man was dealing with and for all I know he never even thought about that record again. I am to blame for my own actions, but not for his or anybody else's.
Now another ten years have passed and I am trying to learn that same lesson again. Frankly, I spent fifteen months or so wallowing in my own spiritual waste when I should've been leading and feeding the few dozen souls that had called me Pastor for the prior five years. And yet, as great as the account is that I will have to give for that time, and as much as I believe that "everything rises or falls on leadership," I am not to blame for the way that anybody else dealt with that situation. I am certainly not guilty of any of the clandestine nonsense, dishonesty, gossip and backstabbing that started after my repentance, most of which I was unaware of till it was all over. After I finally pieced together what happened around me, I carried the guilt of all that for too long. What could I have done differently that would have seen people do this instead...? Surely they wouldn't have felt like they needed to... if only I had... what? I didn't know, but I was sure it was all mostly my fault anyway.
I was accused (though to others, not to my face or in my presence) of specific lies I didn't tell, and even though I caught others in deception, I felt like I had done something to cause it, though I didn't know what. When my wife became frustrated with others' responses to us, I would remind her that this wouldn't be happening if not for my own failure. When my children would question what was happening, I would take all blame for all the pain they felt. That fifteen months and afterward had brought all this on and whatever happened with others was a result of my own failure, I believed.
And then I remembered Rick's album and the lesson the Holy Spirit taught me as I burned it in the backyard ten years before.
It ain't on me! The road trip to freedom starts by taking responsibility for your own sin, but that's also where it ends. Your own sin... and nobody else's!
Be an influence, yes. Be an example. Be a watchman or a shepherd or a parent or a leader. But don't be a scapegoat! Knock that off!
There is only One Who can ever truly take the guilt of others upon Himself. And those others, and you, and all of us need to get our eyes off each other and even off ourselves and straight onto Jesus, the Author and Finisher of our faith. He is our road to freedom from ALL guilt, both our true guilt and our so-called false guilt that we lade upon ourselves.
Remember that when you try to take on the guilt of others, you are trying to take the place of Jesus Christ. Stop that!
I went back to Cameron for the funeral of Bobby's grandmother. I couldn't find Rick's house again. But I wasn't really trying that hard, I just wanted to drive by for a memory. Yes I have personal remorse about Rick, but it's all about his album, not about his suicide. I don't have any loose ends to tie up with regard to Rick.
Just like I had to realize I have no loose ends to tie up with with my last pastorate. I earnestly sought forgiveness from God and man, received it from God (and some men) and that's the end of it in this life. I will carry to the Judgment Seat only "the things done in my body." And so will others. There is much that will be revealed in That Day about those events around my failure. But I refuse to share any of the guilt today that Christ will require of others in That Day.
VM
