Mentoring a Young Man

My mother and father divorced when I was 10 years old. My older brother did a great job of stepping in as the man of the house, and played a huge hand in helping to raise me. I will be forever thankful to him because he never treated me as a younger brother, but rather treated me pretty much as an equal, and spent a lot of time with me. The countless hours we've spent over the years playing baseball and softball together will mean more to me than he will ever know.

But there were other men who stepped up and mentored me in my younger years as well. As I grew into my early teen years, the paths -- both good and bad -- I could have taken in my life were wide open in all directions. I wanted to be a rock-n-roll star, that was for sure, and there were several men in my church who recognized my talents and my desires and helped foster me in the right directions.

These men took me to my first Christian rock concerts when I was yet still a young lad, and when they finally took me to my first Petra concert, it was over, and I was hooked. My career, such as it is, as a musician for Jesus has continued ever since.

The men of God who shaped me into the man I am today are probably too numerous to mention, but I would like to single out a few. Scott Johnson, Bill VanHuss Steve Gregory, Randy Weece, Jerry Shrake, Tom Reedy and Terry Crist were all men who played a major role in helping raise me, whether they realize it or not. And with some, we've forged friendships that are as strong today in my adult years as they ever were when I was a kid.

But here's today's fond memory: When I was a youngin', our church, Mt. Gilead, would hold a New Year's Eve party each year at Neil Armstrong elementary school. On New Year's Eve 1982, as I was playing games with friends in the gymnasium, a jam session broke out in the corner. Several men from the church had toted their guitars along with them to the party, and they started playing music together. I was enthralled. As I stood there gawking, Terry Crist asked me where my guitar was. I instantly insisted my Mom drive me home so I could get it.

She did.

I returned and was instantly invited to sit in -- me, a boy of 12, among men, all seasoned musicians. They all treated me as one of the guys! And I was in absolute Heaven! It was the first time I'd every gotten to "jam" with anyone else, and they let me play the songs I knew and play along with theirs.

One gentleman in particular had a 12-string guitar. I'd never seen one -- actually didn't even know such a thing existed. He played it like a champ, and I was in awe. We played well past the midnight New Year, and I went home with my Mom a very happy young man.

Flash forward about 8 months: As the new school year started, our new Sunday School classes changed over, and I stepped into my first Jr. High Sunday School class. The teacher for the class was the man with the 12-string guitar. It was the first time I'd encountered him since New Year's, but I instantly recognized him and reminded him who I was. He remembered and asked if I was still playing guitar. When I assured him I was, he suggested that perhaps we get together and play some more music together.

A few weeks later, he picked me up from my house on a Friday night, and took me to his home. We sat in his (sparsely furnished) living room and played guitar together into the wee hours of the night. That began a regular Friday night get together that would last for years, and dominate almost my every Friday night clear thru high school.

More importantly, we formed an instant and strong friendship that has lasted to this very day. He was 13 years older than me (still is, actually!) At 27 years of age, he treated me, a 13 year old boy, as an equal. He mentored me, and taught me about life, and how to be a man, and a gentleman, and how to be a better person. And mostly, how to love Jesus.

The ensuing years saw countless nights at Biffs, trips to Paragon, the senseless murder of an unfortunate raccoon, endless laughs, forming a band, gigs, gigs and more gigs, he as my employer, and a thousand other memories I don't have space for here.

Oh yeah... and gas -- methane, I think -- lethal, toxic, tear-inducing, breath-taking (gagging?) gas. 'Nuff said.

Today, his family is my family, and mine his, and our friendship might as well be a brotherhood, as strong today as it was when I was 13.

Thank you, Kenny Fulk, for taking a young kid under your wing, for seeing something in him, and not only encouraging it, but fostering it. For teaching him about Jesus, and for playing a vital role in forging him into the husband and father he is today. You've been as good a Mentor, Father, Brother, and Friend as I could ever ask for.

I might be moving a little farther away, but I think there's still plenty of music to be played. Perhaps a jam session on the beach is in our future, with our girls swooning off to the side, yeah?

And I would ask you to stop stinking things up, but what fun would that be, huh?

P.S. I considered publishing a list of things I've learned from Kenny. The list would read like lines from a movie. A lot of great stuff, but, alas, they're not all family-friendly enough to make public. Shame, that. But they're funny!