Jack’s Voice of God

Sometimes, even though I have no idea what this really means, I think I hear the voice of God. Yesterday, while riding my motorbike to work, he said to me, “What the hell happened to your writing? Pull your head out of your ass and get to work.”

 It took me by surprise. I hadn’t heard that voice in quite a while. In this case, the voice of God was that of a large, moody 42-year-old black man from Indiana. It was unmistakably my old friend Jack. Jack was killed in 2004 in a car accident. He was one of my most trusted friends (and I his), my musical mentor, my motivator, and often my harshest critic. He’d tell it like it is. He wouldn’t waste time putting things gently, he’d just say what he thought you needed to hear…especially if you didn’t want to hear it.

“Just DO what the fuck you SAY you’re gonna do,” was one of my favorites. Another was, “YOU are your worst enemy.” And, “What’s your six-month-plan, Carrie?”

Yesterday I heard his voice telling me I’d wasted enough time focusing on other people besides myself, and this book was not going to get written by anyone but me. Why did I think of God, even though I clearly recognized Jack’s voice? Did I need to feel that the command came from such a lofty place that I dare not disobey? That statement alone shows how hokey my very concept of the word God can still be sometimes. But my response was to think of Jack being channeled through the very ruler of the heavens, straight into my noodle.

It seemed appropriate enough. I trust Jack. I’m not sure if I trust God. I don’t know God well enough yet.

This morning I opened my e-mail and there is a message from Libby, my friend and fellow Jack-disciple. Yesterday was the 6 year anniversary of the accident. Of course I’d completely forgotten. She sends a reminder to all his closest friends every year. If I were at home I would meet her in the stunning Lakewood Cemetery, she’d bring purple flowers, I’d scrub the headstone with my various cleaning supplies, she’d say a few words, I’d do a headstand, and then we’d hop in our cars and go to the nearby (and now demolished) Uptown Grill for a huge breakfast and a Bloody Mary.

But this year I am here, where there are no cemeteries, no Uptown Grills, and certainly no Bloody Marys. Instead, I was clearly reminded of Jack, six years to the day after he left us, by Jack himself, making me think he is the voice of God, which probably made him smile.