My friend Vic

It was kind of a strange first contact, by phone. “I need a pastor, a Mennonite pastor, and I sure hope you’re not Mennonite Brethren. . . .”

Immediately wary, and aware that such an opening probably had significant history behind it, I assured him that I was in fact a Mennonite pastor and that he could decide later if the “Brethren” appendage was a good or bad thing.

We set up a meeting for later that day. This was the beginning of a friendship which lasted until the day he died. Keeping that relationship alive taught both of us many lessons – some enjoyable, some extremely meaningful and some downright painful. For a period of less than a year, we were part of a church family together, and the commitment to be there for each other brought with it severe stresses which challenged me as have few friendships before or since. Vic was a complex man, incredibly hurt during the 50-some years he had lived.

That first meeting ended up being the Fourth Step (“a searching and fearless moral inventory of oneself”) in the Alcoholics Anonymous program. As sins were confessed, and as pain was prayed over, faith again began to emerge. Some of the history which prompted the “Mennonite Brethren” antagonism surfaced – feelings of “you were always more spiritual” and “that was the cause of my first marriage failure”. The question “Where are your children?” brought more pain. “I don’t know, but I think some are nearby.” My next question “Would you like to try establishing contact?” brought tremendous uncertainty. Fear of rejection oozed from every aspect of our conversation. We ended the meeting by burning the pages and pages of notes listing all the sins which had been confessed, and by thanking God for new freedom.

Over the next 116 days, a new light came on in Vic’s eyes. He found a better place to live, he volunteered as a handyman in the church, and he volunteered to paint the entire church as a thank-offering for the help he had received from – of all people – Mennonite Brethren. He was hired by several people from the church so that he could once again support himself.

Release from alcohol and the rekindling of his relationship with God spurred Vic to action. “I know who the ‘greater power’ is,” Vic would say. “Is there no Christian organization through which we could reach other recovering alcoholics?” He discovered “Alcoholics Victorious”, a program operating in Oregon. Vic contacted them, came up with a proposal to use the church for meetings, and within two weeks had his first AV meeting. Six people came. It appeared to me that our church volunteering the room and providing free coffee was a tremendous encouragement to Vic and several friends. Part of my pastoral responsibility was to pick up all the cigarette butts from the front sidewalk after their Wednesday night meetings, before others could take offense and perhaps suggest that such a ministry was “not in the best interest of the church”. Several weeks later, Vic led his first recovering alcoholic to the Lord. I was introduced to many of his friends, each of whom shared a similar story, many of whom had felt hurt by a church, but some of whom were now coming to wholeness.

As time passed and the AV group continued to grow, Vic kept me updated as to his personal progress. Twenty alcohol-free days, then 50, then 100. We went to Boston Pizza one evening and drank coffee until 2:00 a.m. Why? “Friends need to celebrate!”

Thinking back, I realize that party was also for another reason. A surgery was being planned, and the anticipated physical pain was beginning to look so overwhelming that alcohol was again looking like a viable coping option. That evening, we talked about the scheduled surgery, possible baptism, a recent conversation with Vic’s daughter, who wanted to see him, and a job offered by one of the church families, which was not going well. As I drove him home, we set up another meeting for later that week. As he got ready to go into his small apartment, we prayed – this time both of us – and thanked God for friendship.

Signals which might have been caught, I missed. His daughter’s failure to show up for their scheduled meeting, late payment for work done, dissatisfaction with the job done, and, the biggest signal, a cancelled Wednesday evening meeting. The following day, a phone call. Subdued. “Maybe this ‘Victorious thing’ is overemphasized,” he began. “Why don’t we feel more support for our ministry from the church? Should I drop it altogether?” As we talked, Vic decided “No, this is still worth it.” After all, “I’m now into day 112. This is the longest I’ve been free for 25 years.”

Vic and I met for lunch the next day, and he brought two friends with him, both at various stages of recovery. But most of the conversation centred on the leg surgery which was now one week away. It was a big deal to Vic. Again, as we sat in the restaurant, we prayed. He appeared to be relieved. As we left, he said, “See you Sunday.”

Sunday morning, day 116, Vic was not in his usual place for the worship service. Not to worry, this had happened before, but, an urgency was present within my spirit. After the service, a friend, the one who had had work done by Vic, asked if I’d seen him. “Sure,” I replied, “I had lunch with him and two friends on Thursday. Why?” His reply: “I’m just a little worried. That surgery has him spooked.”

Later in the day, as my wife Martha and I readied ourselves for an evening meeting in our home, the phone rang. A hardly recognizable voice, Vic’s. “I just called to say goodbye. I fell off the wagon yesterday, and I’m too embarrassed to see even you. Goodbye.”

I was dazed. “Good-bye” – did that mean what I thought? Quickly Martha and I prayed – for wisdom and for God’s intervention. I needed a plan, but what? He had sounded rather sleepy when he called. Would he even let me come to see him?

An idea, perhaps from the Lord – I’d phone him and ask to go for coffee. He’d never before turned down that offer. I rang his number, and – wonder of wonders – he answered. “Hello, Vic, this is Reuben”, I began. “Have you got time to go for coffee?”

“Sure”, he replied, “but I’m not doing too good. You’ll have to come to my place.” Apparently he had forgotten that he had called.

I made it to his house in record time, knocked on the door and walked in. Martha was left to make arrangements for the College and Career meeting, which was to start in an hour.

Vic was in bad shape. I learned later he had finished a-case-and-a-half of beer, a bottle of Scotch and all the painkillers and sleeping pills in his apartment. He kept slipping in and out of sleep. When he realized I was there, he kept berating himself. “I’m sorry I ever called you: I’ve been nothing but a nuisance. No one wants me. I’m a failure at everything.”

My heart was heavy. I cried, tried to assure him of continuing friendship.

Vic broke in, “It’s too late. I took the next drink, which I told you would be my last. Please go away and let me die.”

I called his daughter out of town. He tried to talk with her, but hung up when she asked how he was. She called back. I answered, and she asked me to call 9-1-1. I did!

When the voice came on, I asked for the ambulance to come. With his head lying on one arm, Vic reached over and hung up the phone. “Don’t do that,” he said. “Please just let me die.”

About 30 seconds later, his phone rang. Vic was now asleep. “Did someone there call?”

“Yes” was my reply.

“Is the situation under control?”

“No.”

Within minutes, the ambulance was at Vic’s door.

While waiting for the ambulance, my spirit ached within me. Vic had been in our home on many occasions, we had accepted his abilities and opened ministries to him, and God had blessed his care for other recovering alcoholics. But in my heart the big issue was that Vic had become one of my closest friends. When he needed to buy a different car, he and I had looked at options together. When we worked in our backyard, Vic would come by “just to talk and look”.

Once the attendants got to Vic’s apartment, the business of strapping him into the seat for removal became quite the ordeal. Vic awoke enough to let them know he didn’t want to go to the hospital, “Why can’t you just let me die?”

As they were preparing to leave, an attendant had one more question. “Vic, Vic, wake up!” He literally was hollering. “Vic, how many pills did you take?”

Vic, not to be outdone, hollered back, “All of them!”

The ambulance attendants got Vic to the hospital in time. Medical professionals pumped his stomach. He recovered enough to have his leg surgery and, after about 10 days, was released from hospital.

Twice during the time in hospital, I went to see Vic. The first time, I took him his glasses, but he did not recognize me or remember the visit. Three days later, I again went to see him but was refused entry because his second wife had heard about the situation and was assuming responsibility for his visitors.

What goes on in a pastor’s mind when something like this happens? Questions bombarded me. What was my responsibility as a human being? Was I acting within my calling by intervening? Should I have honoured his request to simply let him die? As a friend, when should I let him make decisions for himself, and when should I interfere?

Sixteen days later, I had my answers, and it was Vic who gave them to me, by phone. “You are the sorriest person who ever was called pastor. You call the ambulance, ask them to save my life when I don’t want to live, and then you ignore me in hospital. I never want to see you again, and I never want to meet another Mennonite Brethren.” He hung up.

I was stunned. How could this happen? Obviously he knew nothing of my attempts to see him in hospital, but now I felt wounded. Should I just give up and let him call off our friendship? I prayed, “God show me what to do. I am at a loss.”

I wandered around my office for an hour. Doesn’t a friendship have two sides to it, I wondered? Then why can one person end it? Can the other person not attempt to keep it going? Covenant means “The stronger accepts responsibility for the relationship”. That’s what Elmer Martens had taught in Seminary. Maybe I could put it into practice. . ..

I hopped into my truck, drove to Vic’s apartment and knocked on the door.

“I thought I told you to get lost. . ..” he began, but I cut him off.

“Vic,” I said, “Listen! Four months ago, you called needing help. Today I’m calling needing help. Four months ago, you desperately hoped that someone, even a Mennonite Brethren, would accept you. I said yes. Today I am asking you to say yes to my call for friendship. Maybe you don’t want me as a friend, but I still want you as a friend. Don’t throw me out like I don’t matter.”

Vic started to cry, bitter tears. “I’ve always pushed people away when I needed them most, but you came back.” We embraced. A new friendship, based on mutual need, was born that day, a relationship that was not one-sided, but two-sided.

Vic, given his many health challenges, some present because of alcohol, died about six months later, of cancer. But he didn’t die alone.

In my memory, Vic’s influence lives on. The most memorable thing for me was the recognition that there are times when one person must take ownership of a relationship, and that a relationship which may seem beyond recovery may be rekindled if there is readiness to forgive and accept imperfection. Vic told me later, “I was ready to throw out this relationship too, but that was typical of the first 55 years of my life. It’s time to begin relating to others in a new way.” It is a way called covenant.

Reuben Pauls is now senior pastor of River of Life Church in Sorrento, B.C.