Most of us have a friend like Tom – inseparable at one point in your life, but then the reality of time and adulthood get in the way. You lose touch, maybe move away. Build an adult life, marry, have kids. You get back together occasionally and, when you do, you pick up exactly where you left off. The same jokes. The same stories. The same memories.
Tom Racculia and I met in the 1970s, in our youth “folk group” at church. A handful of us played at 9:30 Mass every Sunday morning. It was a great experience for high-schoolers who fancied themselves as musicians – singers and guitar players. Tom strummed the guitar pretty well, but the show-stopper was his voice – a strong, clear, powerful tenor.
One Christmas, the music director combined all the choirs to sing at Midnight Mass. Tom sang the solo for “O Holy Night.” The first time around, he choked on the climactic high note. I immediately nudged the singer next to me and whispered, “Just wait.” The next time around he hit that note so powerfully loud and clear, I swear the old stained-glass windows rattled.
Tom was a born performer, a clown prince. Think Robin Williams. On speed. During that same Midnight Mass, as we sang “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing,” Tom leaned into my ear and softly sang a bastardized lyric. (Hey, we were 15!) In the middle of Midnight Mass, right next to the altar, I was unable to control my laughter. I would have been the object of the pastor’s wrath if one of the ladies from the adult choir hadn’t relied on too much pre-Mass anti-freeze to keep warm, nearly knocking over the Christmas tree.
To this day, I have drunk more beer with Tom than any other person on the planet. Our high school and college years were crazed. We hit the discos at least a few nights a week, wearing our Members Only jackets, polyester shirts, and platform shoes. Nights often ended at Mancini’s for pizza, always double cheese and sausage, usually around 1:30 am. But always, music was front and center – church and otherwise. Singing, playing, and listening.
In high school it was the music that drew us to the Friday night coffee house at the neighborhood Methodist church. They were semi-open mic nights. It was the folk rock, singer-songwriter era and many of the live performances were lights-out phenomenal. After the music, many of us stayed for discussions about Jesus, and then prayer. It was a time when teenagers started exploring truths bigger than themselves. One night in June 1972, we both had the religious experience of a lifetime. For Tom, that lifetime has now ended.
I got his wife’s text over breakfast. Even as I write this, I’m enveloped in a crushing twilight of unreality. Through the haze, I’m upset at Tom, a cancer survivor, for not telling me about new, cascading health issues. I’m angry at myself for not calling him more often over the years, leaving us no opportunity to say goodbye. And I’m livid that I have allowed the tasks and concerns of everyday life to rob me of focusing on the people and things that are supposed to be most important in my life.
One of the greatest gifts God has given us is the gift of each other. It’s a gift worth treasuring. Every day.
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