Yes, Kenny was true to his word: he would never forget me. He returned the next day - and many days after that. In fact, whenever the doorbell rang at the most inconvenient hour, the friars would turn to me and say, "It's your friend". Yes, that morning Kenny and I began a very long and laborious relationship which some people might curiously have called a "friendship". It didn't take long to confirm what I suspected from the beginning: Kenny was addicted to drugs. Therefore his frequent visits were never social calls, just purely business. He never stopped by to say "Hi!", but rather, "Help!"
His life was far from boring, and every day was an adventure like an action packed Hollywood movie. Kenny got himself in and out of so many crazy scenarios that he made Indiana Jones look like a librarian. Now if he played the lead role, guess who ended up as the director? I also tried to rewrite his script, but to no avail. On cold or rainy days, I even ended up as the wardrobe manager as he would show up at the friary door soaked to the bone with his hair plastered down and shivering looking like some lost dog. One day he desperately needed dry pants - and it wasn't raining. Before drug addicts lose their job, family, and friends, they lose their dignity.
One night while preparing for bed, the doorbell rang. Guess who? I opened my window, leaned out and looked down. There below me was my "friend" leaning against the front door casually waiting and whistling like it was midday instead of midnight. To prevent a second ring, I silently sped down the stairs. As soon as I opened the door he broke into a big smile, threw open his arms and cried out, "Padre, we gotta talk!" Before I could say one word, he quickly slipped past me and slid onto the wooden bench in the tiny front foyer. He slapped his hand down next to him and said with a smile, "Padre, hava seat." Frankly, I was too tired to be angry, so I uttered a prayer for patience and wearily sat down. That's when he bent his head, buried both hands in his long hair, and began a "confession" which was unexpected and so inspiring that I soon forgot about bed.
In my never ending effort to bring Kenny to Christ, I had given him a book. In fact, it was the only book I thought he just might read. It was the popular paperback classic, The Cross and the Switchblade, a story of a Brooklyn gang member who had a conversion and eventually became a Christian pastor. Kenny said nothing about the book, so I just presumed he never read it. Well I was wrong, he did read it and its message hit the mark. For the very first time, he came clean and admitted his mistakes, his manipulation, and most of all, his need for God. Admittedly, I at first doubted his sincerity, but when his voice cracked and the floodgates opened, I knew it was the real deal.
The subject soon switched from God to me. He began a long litany of gratitude and praise in my honor, which if heard by the Pope, could only mean instant canonization. One by one he began to remember and recount the times I helped him and the many things I taught him. Hearing all his accolades made my face feel flush and my body all warm inside. Although uncomfortable, I must admit his kudos were pleasurable. I gobbled up every adulation like eating a fistful of hot buttered popcorn.
Our midnight meeting ended with some spiritual counsel and a tearful blessing. As I slowly walked him to the door, he suddenly stopped and asked, "Fr. Glenn, did that guy write any other books?" Although exhausted I knew I couldn't let this pastoral opportunity slip by. I asked him to sit and wait while I looked in our library.
As I excitedly made my way up the friary stairs, I heard the familiar "squeak and click" of the friary's heavy steel front door. I stopped and thought, "Why would he be leaving now?" That's when my secret city-born-and-bred "rat alarm" went off in my head. I turned on a dime and flew down the staircase two steps at a time, then burst through the foyer door. There was Kenny sitting quietly on the wooden bench. I wasn't sure whether it was my imagination or intuition, but he was sitting just a bit too upright and was sporting a "cat-that-ate-the-canary" look on his face. I turned and glanced over to our supply closet in the adjacent room. The door was slightly ajar.
Without saying one word, I marched over to the front door, opened it, then stood aside, stiff like a soldier. Looking forward and speaking through clenched teeth, I ordered: "Kenny, Leave!". Still seated he politely asked, "Fr. Glenn, what about the book?"
Peering out the Plexiglas window, I saw him walking down the street turning now and then to see if I would come out. I immediately knew the whole scenario. When I left the room he hit the supply closet and then pitched the stolen food outside for later retrieval. When I saw him turn the corner, I went outside and spied the stolen goods hidden behind the bushes. I carried the cardboard carton inside and angrily tossed it back in the closet. That's when I heard a voice somewhere inside me say, "Hey, the street smart Brooklyn boy got taken!" Another voice chimed in: "You don't want to tell the brothers about this one!" Then both voices in a cynical sing-song: "Nice friend, Father!"
I was angry. I was embarrassed. I was humiliated. I didn't know what to do or where to go. Without a thought I ran into the friary chapel. The faint fragrance of incense from the evening holy hour still scented the air. The chapel was dark except for the outside street light which cast a thick swatch of gold on the oak floor and altar. The mystical ambience brought a bit of calm, but a turbulent storm still raged within me. I was furious not only at Kenny's betrayal, but at myself. I almost felt nauseous when I though of how I ravenously consumed all his praises, all that "popcorn" - and right out of his hand!
I wasn't sitting there for thirty seconds when something surprising and unexpected happened. Almost in an instant, something crystal clear emerged within me revealing what was at the center of my emotional storm. Interestingly, the more I pondered the bitter truth presented to me, the more sweetness and peace pervaded my soul. In my enthusiasm, I quickly got up, made a most irreverent genuflection, then bolted out of the chapel and back to the supply closet.
I knew by this time Kenny would have been back to recover his hidden treasure. Sure enough, when I looked outside, there was Kenny walking in the other direction, empty handed and, I suspect, humiliated. I called out, "Kenny!" He kept walking pretending not to hear me. I shouted louder: "Kenny!" He stopped and slowly turned around and stood there silently staring at me. His thin frame and wild wispy hair were silhouetted by a lone street lamp. Then, raising a pair of bright red rosary beads into the air, I called, "C'mon over, I want to give you something."
Kenny slowly approached, walking with his head slightly bowed like a guilty little boy. "These are for you", I said as I lifted the rosary into the air again. He stopped a few feet away, tilted his head and squinted as if to say, "What's that?" I smiled and calmly said, "Kenny, on the big beads say an Our Father, on the small beads, a Hail Mary - and please do me a favor, say this rosary - for me."
"Fr. Glenn, I'm sorr-" I quickly cut him off. "Listen, no need to apologize. Kenny, you see what you did to me tonight? You praised me saying, 'Thank you. You're great. I love you…' But you said these things for your own selfish reasons. Tonight I realized something very sad, I do the same thing to others - even to God - and all the time. Besides, the praise you gave me tonight didn't belong to me; I took them from God. So, you see, both of us are thieves.
Kenny stood there silent and stunned, not because of my spiritual insight, but because I apparently wasn't angry. He reached out, took the beads, then quickly put them around his neck Bronx style. Avoiding my eyes, he said, "G'night Father", then turned and walked past the bright street lamp and into the dark. I felt sad for him because I thought he was more confused than contrite. I suspect Kenny slept soundly that night. It was just another daring adventure and another amazing escape.
I received, no doubt, two special gifts that night, namely, insight and acceptance. I was given the grace to see that there was an "I" at the very center of my emotional storm, an ego which made me secretly believe I was better than Kenny. I prided myself in being his benefactor, instead of being his brother. I was his friend while he was, in fact, my foe.
It has been said that there are only two people in the world who will tell us the complete truth about ourselves, namely our best friend and our worst enemy. Like skilled physicians, both can see our ailment - one just happens to have bad bedside manners! Struggling with such an "enemy" isn't easy, but with God and His grace, spiritually these battles can be to our benefit. True, no one enjoys a good kick in the pants, but the saints teach us that if we're facing in the right direction, that is, towards Christ, then even evil and unjust acts can propel us closer to our heavenly goal.
Saint Bonaventure wrote, "Saint Francis preferred to hear himself blamed rather than praised, knowing that blame would lead him to amend his life, while praise would drive him to a fall." Yes. One night God used a drug addict to push me off my high horse named "Secret Pride". Although it was painful, I am now grateful. Kenny eventually died of AIDS, and I pray he's finally with the Lord. On earth he was my friend in need, but now with Christ, may he always be, a friend indeed.