The past two weeks have seen the loss of two friends, both of whom were drawing ever closer to Christ and are now, I'm sure, experiencing the Grace and Peace that surpass all understanding.
Chris Brereton was 55 and was something of a physical wreck for much of the time I'd known him -- which would be just about 30 years. A lot of it was generally attributed to "the usual suspects" -- eating too much, drinking too much, not exercising enough, sciatica, etc. etc. But according to his fiancee, some of the symptoms that he had put down to "aches and pains and sciatica" were actually the effects of cancer, and by the time that was determined, it had ravaged his skeletal structure and there was no holding it back.
Chris was a fixture around local sports for decades. We got to know each other in press boxes at Pacific Coliseum, Cyclone Taylor Arena and Empire Stadium. He was official scorekeeper and semi-official statistician for UBC Hockey for something like 30 years -- and for about that long at lacrosse, senior and junior, painstakingly hand-writing stats and compiling statistical histories of teams in the WLA and BCJLL (hand-writing, even after computers had taken most of the grunt work).
I think his happiest times were hanging out with that crowd -- the constellation of young players and old retired guys who still limped from long-ago injuries, enjoying being part of that unique camaraderie. He had an easy familiarity, too, with retired pro hockey players like Larry Popein, George Wood and Charlie Hodge -- guys I'd looked up to since I was a kid ("Pope" and Wood were my first hockey instructors, and Hodge was a star with Les Canadiens -- my team -- in the 60s).
One of Chris' talents that amazed me was an ability to do a mental "instant replay" of every goal scored. He'd make note of the players on the ice or the floor, and 85% of the time, I'd say, he'd have the scoring play -- goal-scorer and both assists -- before the referee would come over to give it to us. Often, the ref would ask Chris what he saw. He was passionate and exacting about the job he did, and it was clear that it was his calling. It amazed me how he would haul himself through all manner of traffic and weather conditions (and all kinds of gasoline prices!) to get to the games from his place in Langley, but it was what he loved to do.
One of his proudest moments came when the Thunderbirds recognized the work he and John Iorio -- the longtime clock operator -- had done over 20-some years. (Officially, there were some shirts and other recognition, but one of Chris' legacies to UBC Hockey is the heavy netting draped over the timekeepers' booth. That was a safety measure taken after when a puck came over the glass and took out most if not all of Chris' teeth when he had his head down during a game. How a puck could make that kind of arc and still have sufficient force to do that kind of damage is more than I can tell you. That may not be exactly the memorial anyone would have in mind ... )
Personally, I owe a lot to Chris Brereton. In what was clearly a God Thing, we collided again after several years of no contact -- what with my living in Victoria and Regina between 1983 and 2003 -- while we were both delivering newspapers in Surrey and Langley. There must be a thousand pick-up spots for newspapers in the Lower Mainland, and we wound up at the same one. I was just emerging from what had been the darkest time of my life, and delivering papers at 3am was not the reason.
I owe a lot to Chris Brereton, and I'm not sure he ever knew it. Along about April '04, he told me the Surrey Stickmen needed a PA announcer. That started a 5-year association with the club, during a heady time when they came within 5 seconds of getting into the Minto Cup playoffs. But even more importantly, he also put me onto UBC Athletics when they needed an announcer for women's hockey. That led to UBC basketball and other great opportunities, like the 2006 World Junior Hockey Championships and nearly into the Winter Olympics. When John Ashbridge managed to get a game puck for me from the World Juniors, I knew exactly who was getting it.
There was a more spiritual aspect to my relationship with Chris. In 2005, his wife, also named Diane, fell gravely ill. She'd had diabetes for many years and had been getting around in a wheelchair. Then her legs were amputated and there was a battery of other ailments that landed her in critical care at St Paul's Hospital. Chris asked if I'd go up with him. The night before, I met up with an evangelist friend of mine, Rob Gordon, and asked him how you pray healing over someone if you're not sure they believe. "Start by witnessing," he said. "Tell them your story, and show them the Scripture to back it up." So when Chris picked me up, I did just that (I do have a "story" about healing) and asked if he minded if I prayed over her. "Well ... I dunno ... let me talk to her kids." Sure - no problem.
Diane was not conscious when we got there, so I spent time listening -- listening to Chris and the nurse discussing her condition and listening in the Spirit to what I needed to do. I sat quietly in a corner and prayed. After a while, Chris said, "let's go for coffee," so we went up to the cafeteria. "You know," he said, "if you want to do ... that ... I think it's OK." "Well," I told him, "I already got started while we were in the room." "Great."
A couple of days later, Chris called. "Whatever it was you were doing, keep doing it! She woke up! She started talking! They were going to move her to hospice, but now they don't think they need to!" The next time Chris and I went up to the hospital, Diane was awake and alert. She asked me to read some of the Bible to her, so I read her some passages about healing and Psalm 92, which contains the promise of protection from sickness.
But the illness was too much for her body. A few weeks later, Chris called. "Diane passed away this morning," he said. "Can you come up?" I did. Her adult children from her first marriage were in the room -- and so was she: face uncovered, as if she was part of the conversation.
"I counted eight miracles since that day you prayed over her," Chris said. "Eight times she rallied or something happened that amazed the doctors." There was a pause. "Do you think she's with the Lord?" There was no doubt.
After a few months, Chris met another woman, also named Diane. New Diane is a Believer, and with his appetite whetted, Chris started drawing closer: she took him to church, and she told me that in the last weeks, he confessed Jesus as Lord.
Chris' spiritual change led to yet another major move in my own life. A couple of years ago, he asked me if I was qualified to marry people. I told him no. It wasn't the first time I'd been asked that, but this instance was the one that dug the spurs into my side to do something about it. This past summer, I was licensed through the International Association of Ministries to perform marriages in BC. I emailed Chris to let him know, in case he and Diane still wanted me to officiate.
And shortly after the phone rang last night, I found out why I hadn't heard back.
Diane told me Chris restored her self-esteem. Someone told Chris after the first Diane had died that he brought out the best in her. As I say, he kicked open a few key doors for me, and judging by the way he never said anything -- and I mean "never" and "anything" -- to try to claim credit for it, I wonder if he ever knew.
But Someone does, and I believe Chris is getting one sweet reward now.
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Pete died this week.
Pete has been someone I think of often, when I think of transformation revival on the Downtown East Side. Certainly, I've spoken about him in my talks to churches, as evidence of the way that exposure to the Word of God and His Grace can turn people's lives around.
When I first met him, he was one of those people I'd cringe when he'd come in because he had this enormous chip on his shoulder. Short and wiry, bald but with a stringy pony tail, he'd limp into the Mission on severely bowed legs and sit and look totally bored through the sermon, twisting in his chair to look at the clock every so often. We usually wrap up the sermon and serve food by 8, so if the time got around to 7:55, he'd start to fidget ... by 8, he'd begin muttering "let's pray ... come-on!", because he knew that was the prelude to the food ... and if perchance the service, lesson or whatever dragged on to 8:15 he'd start muttering little obscenities.
Sometimes, he wouldn't mutter.
But he kept coming ... largely because another brother, Jacques, kept dragging him in, determined that Pete was going to get saved come hell or high water.
(Jacques is actually known as Jack, but he signs his name "Jacques Robinson" ... a very rough-hewn type from Alberta -- I think his mother's the French influence in the family. Jacques/Jack is another study in transformation ... for another time.)
And little by little Pete's whole demeanour changed. He certainly stopped fidgeting; but he also started smiling. When he'd walk into the Mission, John would lead a loud chorus of "Heeey, Pete!" -- rather like "NORM!" on "Cheers!". He'd sit with Jacques in the front row, the two of them looking more like Statler and Waldorf, the two old guys on The Muppet Show, than anything else. But I believe the message of Grace was starting to sink in.
"You hear that, Peter?" Jacques would say at a key point in the sermon, "he's talkin' to you!' "He's prayin' for you, ya know!" "Jesus did that for you!" Jacques was one of Pete's biggest cheerleaders.
Like everyone on the DTES, Pete had a "story". His real name was Lewis Miner -- something I didn't know for the first couple of years .. and something Pete didn't know until he was about 16. Turns out that was his given name, but he was raised by his grandmother, who -- for whatever reason -- didn't give him the whole story. Whether that was a cause of Lewis/Pete turning to a life of crime is pure speculation, but Pete did wind up seeing the inside of a lot of prisons over the years. He killed a man in a fight and was sent to the old BC Pen for manslaughter. He broke out -- like that another man named Miner, Billy, had done 60 years before -- using his slight, wiry frame to shinny up the inside of a chimney.
"How far did you get?" I asked. "They caught me on the railroad tracks," he said, sheepishly.
He did more time for more things and drank a lot, which eventually led him to the Downtown East Side. I don't know how many years he was there, or even whether he had chances to pull out and hold down a job for any length of time. He came across as a throwback to the first DTES denizens I used to observe in the mid-60s, when I rode the #20/25 bus through the DTES to and from school: the classic "street drunk". He was also the definition of the miserable old sod when I first met him ... and then gradually softened, opened up, and in his way, I believe responded both to being exposed to the Word and getting Jacques' tireless, gruff witness.
I believe he came to a realization that he was hitting his early 70s and that he couldn't think of anything to show for it. It was time for him to look for some other way of measuring his life.
Early this year, Jacques came in alone and came over to me. "Pete's got cancer. They're giving him treatments, so we'll see." We prayed for him that night. The next Saturday night, Pete came in. "How're you doin'?" I asked him. "I got cancer," he said, grinning.
He came to a couple more services, and then I didn't see him again. Jacques would give progress reports and tell where Pete was staying. I always made a mental note to get over and see him. That didn't happen. Ever.
Pete was -- and remains -- one of the ones I think of when I talk about the victories, big and small, that we see on the Downtown East Side. I'm going to miss him. A lot.
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If there's been any lesson from the past year -- more than any other -- it's been DON'T PROCRASTINATE! Chris and Peter are two guys I'd always "been meaning to" call or get together with, and the Holy Spirit was screaming at me to do it before it was too late. Same thing with my friend Joyce, whose husband was diagnosed with cancer this past spring: I put off calling her to see how she was doing, and one morning the Spirit woke me up at 5 to remind me. So I called ... and found out later that her husband had died that morning -- around 5.
Are we so busy that we can't take 5 minutes for a phone call or an email? Are we afraid we don't know what to say? We don't have to wax poetical or philosophical like Jean-Marc Genereux on
So You Think You Can Dance Canada: just saying "how are you?" or "I'm here" is all that's needed. When I was sick a couple of years ago, a dear friend from church called, and that was basically all she said; when my dad had a heart attack in August, people from work took a moment to put their head in my office or call or email and say exactly that. It may not seem like much, but it's huge. And it's a lot better than standing on the sideline saying, "I'd been meaning to call ..."
