A chilling breeze cut through the tranquility of the cold night air as it moved across the mountain lake. It was September 11, 1982, and anyone could tell at this elevation that snowfall and winter would be here sooner than normal. The temperature around nightfall had already dropped near freezing, and, combined with the breeze, made for a frigid wind-chill.

On this particular night, however, three young campers had braved the elements and had made their camp along the shoreline of Shoshone Lake in Yellowstone Park. Sheltered by a grove of trees that served as their only protection, they huddled around a small fire that flickered with each push of wind. The group, all students at Eastern Washington University in Cheney, WA and preparing to return to school after summer vacation, consisted of: (1) Craig Clum, a major in general studies from Spokane and a broken down ex-baseball player who had recently come to know the Lord in the recent year, having come out to Yellowstone by Greyhound to visit his friends, (2) Karen Delzer, a somewhat shy young lady from Garfield, WA studying to be a medical lab technician, and who had arrived late in the summer to work in housekeeping at the Mammoth Hotel, and (3) myself, a junior from Walla Walla majoring in Business Education, coming off a school year full of heartache and frustration.

As the three of us sat around the fire that night, making every effort to stay warm (although we were thoroughly parboiled on one side and frozen on the other), we reminisced about the past year. We had all come to meet through the Marshall Campus Center, a small college dorm in Cheney owned by nearby Marshall Community Church. I had been the director of the dorm during the 1981-82 school year, which housed six male students upstairs and four female students in the basement. Craig and Karen had separately come and joined the dorm in mid-year, and we had done a lot of things together, including attending the same church.

But around the fire that night, we all did a lot of soul searching. Each of us brought our own dose of discontentment to the conversation. We were all searching for the Lord's direction in our lives, but really weren't sure where He was leading us. We talked about the past year, the people we had met, and some of the wacky and supposedly Christian behavior we had seen, and especially the disappointment we all shared in the direction that the campus ministry had taken. Although none of us could readily admit it, we were all due for a change.

I told Craig and Karen that I was willing to stay at Marshall and give the church one more try. Having grown up in essentially one church, I was mainly basing my opinion on trying to stabilize my involvement with a church. Craig, however, said he couldn't go back, and was looking elsewhere for Christian fellowship. He said that during the summer, he had met a young pastor in Cheney while playing basketball at the university. The strange thing was that this pastor and his wife held church in their basement apartment. "And I think it's a Foursquare Church..." Craig added.

We decided we were in it together. We figured it would be easier to get involved with a new fellowship as a threesome, and not be some lone visitor in a sea of strangers. So we agreed that we would give this church a try, and that maybe getting involved with this small group of believers would be the step in spiritual growth that we were longing for. After hearing Craig's descriptions of the young pastor, I was suddenly anxious to meet him. It was a meeting that very nearly never took place...

*****

Three days later, I was back working on a Park Service road crew stationed out of Yellowstone's Mammoth Hot Springs village. Karen was back to cleaning rooms at the Mammoth Hotel, and Craig hung around my living quarters during the day. It was my last regular workday of the summer, and our work crew of three were out by Undine Falls, about five miles east of Mammoth, laying snow stakes on the road to Roosevelt Lodge.

Like most tasks involved with Park Service road maintenance, laying out snows takes is a fairly mindless chore. The goal is to lay out skinny 8-10 foot poles, color-coded on the ends, in order to mark the road for the winter snowplow. A yellow tipped pole signaled a culvert, a red and yellow pole marked a sign, and a red tipped pole was a regularly spaced marker placed every tenth of a mile. The poles themselves are simply young lodge pole pines with the branches stripped off of them.

So to lay snow stakes, one uses a heavy steel bar, and pounds it into the ground (or pavement or rocks) until a 3" diameter hole exists with sufficient depth to support the stake. This was the first time I had ever performed this "fun" task, so I was wildly flailing my bar all over the place. Sometimes when digging a hole, the bar would strike a rock, creating sparks and emitting smoke from the hole being dug.

So it was that afternoon as we worked a straight stretch just east of Mammoth. We were marking a sign for the Lava Creek picnic area. My partner placed the appropriate red and yellow stake in the ground near the four-foot wooden approach sign. I followed by preparing to dig a hole for a red marker directly across the road from the sign. I was eight inches off the pavement on the shoulder of the road, and I threw the steel spud bar into the ground when sparks flew.

Thinking nothing of that colorful result, I pulled the bar back, and drove once again into the earth. When the bar stuck this second time, a great hissing sound emitted from the hole, and the ground around my feet went up in about three inches of flames. Instinctively, I dropped the bar and fell backwards a few feet. Scott Taylor and Vern Wagner, my partners, just sat there with me in shock for a few seconds. Then we all erupted in laughter. "WHAT WAS THAT????" we all chorused in. Blasting caps? A gasoline leak that had ignited?

I grabbed the end of the bar for closer examination, and the laughing stopped. There on the tip of the solid steel bar, one could easily see a 1/8" notch that had been melted out. I had truly hit something hot; work was over for the day.

When we arrived back at the shop in Mammoth to report the accident, word had already arrived that the power was out in the resort village of Roosevelt Lodge 15 miles to the east. The main lookout at Mount Washburn was totally out of power. It wasn't really clear what had occurred out on that roadside until we returned the next morning.

Working just off the pavement of the highway on a lonely stretch of road, I had pierced the insulation of the 12,000-volt main line running out to Roosevelt. The initial thrust of the bar had penetrated the insulation (thus the source of the sparks), while the second blow sent the bar deeper into the exposed power lines. The electricity had surged up through my bar, and out into the ground, creating the fireworks around my feet. Because my bar was deep enough into the ground, the electricity had traveled out into the soil instead of up the bar. I had come within an eyelash of being killed instantly.

*****

A few days later Karen, Craig, and I were back in Cheney, preparing for the summer school year. Craig and I had made arrangements with Marshall Community Church to live in the basement of their old church dorm while the new Assembly of God church would meet upstairs. One afternoon, Craig and I were walking down 4th street, right in front of our friend Chuck Luttrell's house, when a young man approached us. "This is that guy I was telling you about," Craig whispered, "the pastor of the Foursquare Church." A brief amount of small talk ensued, and we all were off again.

Meeting Steve Perry for the first time was a very ordinary experience; however, my life would never be the same again! I soon found the nearest thing to a "kindred spirit" in this young minister who bore a slight resemblance to David Carradine in the martial arts series, Kung Fu. And little did I know during that first meeting of the extent that this newfound relationship would impact my life. For there are many people that may have reminded you of Steve; yet no one was like him.

The following pages carry the story of the ten years of friendship with a dear friend that the Lord blessed me with. For as so many of you can testify, whether you knew him for two months or twenty years, Steve Perry always had a way of leaving his mark on everyone he befriended.

So Craig Clum, Karen Delzer, and myself had all agreed to start attending this fledgling Foursquare Church in Cheney. When we first started going to church there, the Sunday morning meetings were held at Harlan and Jean Henderson's house on 6th Street, about two blocks from the Eastern Washington campus. Sunday night's consisted of a Christian book study and discussion. Wednesday night Bible study was held at the Perry's basement apartment on North Ninth Street.

Later that fall, the Sunday morning meetings were moved to the Perry's living room on a more permanent basis. It was a relaxed atmosphere that we all appreciated a great deal. Steve and Teri would set all their old folding chairs out around the living room, and later, after receiving it as a special birthday gift, Steve would perch himself up on his stool to lead worship with his guitar and to teach from the Word. One thing that Brenda and I recall most about Steve's worship leading was that he had resolved in his mind to enter the presence of the Lord, no matter what the circumstances of the church, his personal life, or the matters of the day happened to be. I think the best term would be "militantly strumming his guitar with resolve". In the early going, it was obvious to us all that Steve had a very special and personal relationship with his Savior, and that nothing was going to stand in the way of that.

There was a steady routine on Sunday mornings. I would often arrive early, and carry the "FAITH CENTER" folding sign up to the street so that visitors would know where we were meeting. Before any service started, Steve or Teri would pick up the phone and dial "235" and simply leave the phone off the hook. Once we all settled in, we would start with several lively worship songs which we all enjoyed, except for one: "Ha ha-ha-ha ha-ha lay-ay lu yah", in which Steve would often have everyone sing to me, because he knew I hated it so much! There were other variations to the song: "Scratch another back, scratch a back next to ya" or "Slap another hand, slap a hand next to ya", etc. It was, as you can imagine, a rather unorthodox song of encouragement.

After worship and offering, Steve would begin teaching us from the Word. He was very fond of the life of Christ, and often taught from the very words of Jesus. More than any other minister I have been under, Steve was the master of the numbered outline and three or four point message. His introduction focused on the areas of emphasis he wished to cover, and the body of his message expounded on those points, with cross references and often Greek or Hebrew word studies.

Steve was not a preacher; he was definitely in the teaching mode, and never got side tracked from what was on his heart. His desire was to show us what the Lord had revealed to him during his hours of private study at the college library. At the close of his messages, he would again highlight the main points, and close in prayer. Everyone was encouraged to take notes, which would lead me into making comments in the margins whenever Steve made a "boo-boo"...

We called them "Perry-phrases". There was something about Steve's thought processes that caused him to make untold numbers of ridiculous and bizarre bloopers. Over those first three years, I accumulated so many blooper notes that I later compiled them all in a paper that I called "The Book of Perry". I presented it to Steve when we had a small reunion to celebrate the ten-year anniversary of the Cheney church. As of this writing, I do not know where that "Book" is, but would love to have a copy of it in my hands again. Here are some samples of "Perry-phrases":

· During our book study of "God's Chosen Fast": "Be sure to go into a long fast knowing what to eat"

· At a retreat at Liberty Lake, when describing the man who made excuses for not following Jesus: "I have to go marry my father; er? I have to go bury my father. To which Jesus replied, 'Let the dead bury their beds...er?'"

· "Thinking in the back of someone else's mind"

· "Where would we be without the sacrifice of Calgary?" [Our sweet friend Jill Whitaker was from Calgary]

· "You are Marty, Lord"

· "We need to learn to laugh at the lies of the Lord"

· Description of the apostle Paul: "He was yapping his flap while he was in the clink!"

· "It's too bad there was so much immorality in the garden..."

· "I don't care if it's just a piece of poop when they get done with it" [in reference to Paul's description of his religious background]

· The apostle Wall

· "Then the prophet Alicia went down..." [We had a young lady named Alicia Ford in our group]

Our course, there were many others; these are just the highlights! On the particularly goofy flub-ups, Steve would tilt his head sharply to the right, contort his lips, and squeal "ORR OO", or he would have this goofy look on his face and place his index finger next to his nostril, as if to pick his nose.

Another area that Steve excelled in was his use of the coined phrases of the past that had been adopted into household sayings. Of course, we were all so supposed to know what all these terms meant. He would often finger me as being particularly ignorant of these traditional phrases, saying something like "Scott, I can't believe you haven't heard of that before. Where did you grow up, anyway? Walla Walla?" Here are some samples:

· "Don't throw the baby out with the bath water"

· "Put that in your pipe and smoke it!"

· "The wild men of Borneo"

· "Don't be just a Lady Clairol Christian (only their hairdresser knows)"

· "This is where the rubber meets the road"

· "That's like the kettle calling the pot black" [Which I mistakenly modified as "That's like calling the kettle black"

· "The proof is in the pudding"

· "It's six of one, half a dozen of another"

· "We're finished, but He's not" [at the close of a service]

· "Come in, Tokyo" or "Come in, Yoko"

· "When you're not feeling your oats"

· "Puppy love is real to the puppy"

· "Grab, root, and growl" (after saying the blessing at a potluck)

· In reference to Christians who sleep in on Sunday mornings: "He must be attending Bedside Baptist or Church of the Inner Springs"

· "Get under the spout where the glory comes out!"

· "Let's put shoe leather on it"

· "That's like eating steak one night and beans the next"

· "Who is wearing the pants in this family?"

· "Throw out four anchors and pray for daylight"

· "Jesus was God in a bod"

· "They are just 'Sally Rallies'"

· "And we all woke up and there was Mr. Toad and...[and I don't know the rest, but it's from a classic novel]

In the four years I attended Faith Center, I came to realize through Steve's teaching that of the many great books of literature that he had read, there was one particular set of works he was most fond of. I don't think Steve ever taught two messages in a row without making some reference to C.S. Lewis' Chronicles of Narnia. Steve would refer to countless analogies of Aslan, the Great Lion ["It is not for you to know what would have happened"], or of the Pevensie children ["Let us go and seek the adventure that Aslan has laid before us"], to the trip to Aslan's country ["Further up and further in!"]. He just loved the stories, meaningful illustrations, and spiritual truths that C.S. Lewis was trying to communicate in these series of seven famous books, and he freely sprinkled them into his teaching.

Ironically, it was only a few months after Brenda and I left Cheney, on a trip to the Oregon coast, that I began to read the Chronicles of Narnia. Brenda bought me The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe and Prince Caspian before we left on the trip, and by the time we got back, I had read five of the books and had purchased the last two! Suddenly, a whole new world had been opened up to me, and I finally understood what Steve had been talking about over those previous few years.

At Faith Center, Sunday evenings were a little more subdued, as a smaller group of us would gather for our evening discussion of Christian literature we had chosen to study. These studies went on for about two years, and covered C.S. Lewis' Mere Christianity and Screwtape Letters, to God's Chosen Fast by Arthur Wallis. The Sunday night "regulars" included Steve and Teri, Brenda, Chuck Luttrell, Karen Delzer, and myself. We would sit around, drink tea or coffee, and have an open forum discussion on the reading for the previous week. It was really just a great time to wind down from the weekend and get ready for the week of school ahead. I think we all appreciated those times immensely.

Each week on Tuesday we would get together at Steve and Teri's for our 7 a.m. prayer time. Of course, most of us woke up at 6:55 a.m., which gave us a whole five minutes to get there! Craig and I would scramble to get our clothes on, and make a mad dash to the door. During the winter, Craig would barely get his car started, turn on the defroster, and then try to scrape his windshield with a very well used pair of underwear. Once Craig had succeeded in opening up a tiny viewing area in which to see through, we were off. Of course, three blocks down the road, the "defrosted" area had blurred up already, and Craig would just drive the rest of the way up to the Perry's house on North Ninth with his head out the window...

Once we were all settled in the Perry's living room, Steve would open up with prayer and the chorus from Psalm 5:

Give ear to my words, oh Lord

Consider my meditation

Harken unto the voice of my cry

My king and my God

For unto you will I pray

My voice shalt Thou hear in the morning

Oh Lord, in the morning

Will I direct my prayer

Unto Thee and will look up

We would then seek the Lord for about 15-20 minutes of individual prayer, followed by a sharing of needs and a short time of corporate prayer for about 10 minutes. For those who could stay, we would sit around and talk while munching on whatever the designated breakfast person had brought for the week. By that time we were hopefully all awake. I remember our dear friends Connie France and Jill Whitaker making an even more harried rush to this gathering, arriving half asleep with wisps of hair poking out every which way. Those were the days...

Of all the subjects that Steve studied in seminary at Northwest Christian College in Eugene, the one area that he surprised us all in was that of pastoral visitation. I mean, it is imperative for every pastor to get out and visit the members of his congregation, but it's only that Steve took it to new heights.

Steve's routine often took him to the Eastern Washington University library in the morning, where he would read and study for his upcoming messages. He would then return home for the lunch hour, before returning to the library or to take care of personal business around Cheney. He would then wander around to one of our houses, except he would get so caught up in what was going on, that he would stay for 3-4 hours! It would get to be 5 - 5:30 pm, and Teri would have to start calling around to find out where Steve was! He just loved to talk, play a game, or go do something with us. He was a friend first, and a pastor second; he just enjoyed hanging around with his friends.

It was during that first year at Faith Center that Craig Clum and I were living in what we fondly referred to as "The Cave". This was a Spartan way of life in the lower regions of the Marshall Campus Center on 4th and "F" streets, an old and historical church building in downtown Cheney. Craig and I had lived in the Campus Center the year before while attending Marshall Community Church, and while Marshall's campus ministry had been abandoned, the new Assembly of God church had started meeting in the upstairs sanctuary. The downstairs were cold and rather dreary, but Craig and I found it much to our liking: we set up a small black and white TV on the old broken television console, and moved the ping-pong tables into the living room. For convenience sake, Craig and I placed a galvanized trashcan in the kitchen, and we occasionally did the dishes. It would be an understatement to say that the place lacked a woman's touch.

Steve would love to come and visit. He could sit around and talk with Craig and I for hours. Often he would stop by and find Craig and/or myself watching afternoon syndicated reruns. A new independent station had started in Spokane called KAYU, on UHF channel 28, and they initially showed all the "oldies" before joining the Fox network years later.

Our favorites were such shows as Gilligan's Island, Happy Days, CHIPs, and Scoobie Doo. Steve came by and watched Scoobie Doo with me one time, and couldn't believe that I actually watched such a ridiculous kid's show. "How can you watch this?” he exclaimed, "all of these shows end the same, with the crooks getting caught and telling the police that 'we would have gotten away with it, too, if it hadn't of been for these kids and their nosy dog!” "Well," I said, "when I was a kid, I actually thought that some of these episodes were scary". It was a line that Steve laid on me for years to come: "Yeah, and Scott says that some of the parts are scary! Hah, hah, hah!!!" There really were times I had to use full restraint to keep from smacking him!

The advertisements on KAYU were pretty funny, too. Steve would hoot and holler about them, particularly those for upcoming TV shows, or for mail order records. We had all the "Boxcar Willie" and "Slim Whitman" ads memorized [Boxcar Willie: "There's a love knot in my lariat, and it's waitin' for my pretty prairie pet. When I swing my old lassoo, sing my ole a-lay-hee-hoo...ERRRRR...He rides in the sun, when his day’s work is done...] He also loved the CHIPs blurbs [Thug: "Got a problem, officer?" Erik Estrada, driving by on his cycle: "Nothing we can't solve"].

I'm still talking about Faith Center, aren't I? Anyway, we would often have "Movie Nights" at Steve and Teri's on Friday night, or we would get together on Saturday nights to watch "This Old House" [a home remodeling show with Bob Villa] or "All Creatures Great and Small" [stories from the life of English veterinarian James Herriot] on public television Channel 7. On movie nights, we would often pick up "U Bake" pizza at the local pizza place, and go down to Taco Time to fill up our 64 oz. "Big Juan" cups for only a quarter. In those days, VCR rentals were about $8 a night, with tapes renting for around $2 apiece, so we all chipped in to cover the costs. Throw in a particular favorite treat of Teri's, and we were set for the evening.

Steve had a peculiar style in watching movies. If he had seen the movie before, he would give a short preview as he was setting up the movie, and then turn off all the lights, and insist that there be no talking. He just couldn't stand it if someone talked during a key scene, or if a surprise scene was ruined by another's untimely clue. Whatever the case, there was always a good showing for these times of fun, for we were a family, and loved spending time together.

As I mentioned before, Steve Perry was a friend first, and a pastor second. But when it came time to acting as a spiritual leader to his flock, he rose to the occasion. I was always amazed by the gift of wisdom that Steve had been given. For even though he at times lacked maturity in some areas during those early years in Cheney, he never lacked in providing quality counseling and leadership when it counted most. Here are some examples:

1. In providing his opinion in assisting us with an important decision, he would say, "let's pray about this and meet in a week or two"

2. Once, when I was student teaching at West Valley High School and helping out with freshman basketball, it became evident that Wednesday night games or practices would interfere with church meetings. I told Steve of the importance of this for the kids at the school, but he responded quite hard: "Scott, the issue here is not Wednesday night Bible studies. No, the issue here is small decisions. If you compromise with this, it could be a small step toward making a bigger compromise. Personally, I think that if you tell them that Wednesday night services are your priority, they will respect you more for it."

3. When Brenda was considering living with her parents instead of rooming with Jill Whitaker for the coming school year in order to save money, Steve drove all the way out to Brenda's parents' house in north Spokane to talk to her. "Brenda, I realize it would be a lot cheaper for you to live with your parents this year," he said, "but I think Jill really needs you as a friend this year."

4. Once, in the winter before we were married, Brenda was out in Cheney on a snowy night and didn't want to drive back to Spokane. Karen Delzer lived nearby, but was away for the weekend. Because Steve Ulrich was gone that weekend, I had Brenda stay in my room, and I slept upstairs in Steve's bed, while my other roommate Steve Ronholt was in his room. Early the next morning, while on his routine morning jog, Steve Perry ran by our house and saw Brenda's car there. I could tell that evening that he was disturbed about something, and he told me straight on that he wanted to talk with me. "Scott," he said, "I know your heart, and I know that you and Brenda are not going to compromise any of your convictions. But someone else might not understand that. Remember what the Word says: 'Avoid all appearances of evil.' And I'm not going to say another word about it."

5. Once, when the Perry's visited us in Cheney, we watched a show about the young Catholic visionaries in Yugoslavia, who claimed to see the Virgin Mary during daily times of devotion. Thousands of Catholics were making pilgrimages to visit them, and it appeared that some people were getting their lives turned around through these experiences. Yet the whole thing seemed bizarre to me. "This can't be of the Lord," I exclaimed, "this is really weird." Steve thought for moment and responded: "I don't know, Scott. I bet Jesus has a lot less trouble with this thing than we do."

6. In our pre-marriage counseling sessions with Steve, and later during his teaching session during our wedding, many of Steve's illustrations still remain clear in my mind: "Brenda, you are to be under the leadership of Scott, your husband. Yours is an imperfect model. But Scott, you are under the leadership of Christ, who is your model. Your job is much more difficult, for you must follow a perfect model. If you get down the road in a few years and are not satisfied with your wife, you only have to look at yourself." He also talked of the Bible being God's "owner's manual" for marriage, and that couples fail to operate their "car" (marriage) without the "owner's manual" (Bible), and finally kick their "car" and say: "What a lousy car!"

I realize that I could go on and on about the beginnings of Faith Center in Cheney, and about our times together, and love that we all had for one another. Let me just wrap it up by saying that these were times that I will always cherish. None of us had much money, we were all struggling to make it through college, and we definitely had many shortcomings in our walk with the Lord. But there was always a refuge in our times together with the Lord, with each other, and with Steve and Teri Perry. When we sang this song, we meant it from the depths of our hearts:

Family, you are my family

Jesus, He is my Lord

And I'm so glad that we are here together

And I'm so glad that the Father is our God

Eastern Washington University football game at Albi Stadium, September, 1989

The Arrangement

It is now October 1994, and I am sitting here reminiscing about the past, particularly of the events of the past decade. Tomorrow the Eastern Eagles and the Idaho Vandals will be teeing it up from Woodward Field in Cheney, and I will again not be in attendance. Oh yeah, I really wanted to go, but I have many responsibilities and things to do tomorrow; so much so that trying to go to the game would be impractical. No, I really don't think that's it at all. To be honest, if my dear friend Steve was still here, I would find a way to go. It's just not the same anymore...

For eight years, from 1984-1991, Steve and I attended nearly every home game that Eastern played. In fact, I can count on one hand the home games that I missed during those years: I missed one in 1984, and the Central State and Montana State games in 1985, and the rainy day in 1988 when Eastern got thrashed by Weber State. But that's it; Steve and I attended the other 35 or so games during that period.

And we had a routine. When I was living in St. Maries, I would call Steve on Friday night, and we would go over our usual pre-game report, including any late breaking developments for the game. Since Steve had the tickets, we always set our meeting time at 12:15 on the east entrance to Albi Stadium. I would park on the street near the stadium (so I didn't have to pay for parking), and make the long walk across the old dirt and weeds parking lot, with its large parking berms, to the entrance to the stadium. As I got closer to the stadium, I would always see Steve, standing next to the ticket booth, with his huge golf umbrella, stadium seats, and thermos firmly in hand. He knew he didn't need anything else, because I had the popcorn, candy, and anything else I fancied on bringing.

We then quickly made our way to the "Pit" behind the home bench, straddling the 50-yard line. These, in our opinion, were the best seats in the house. It was here that we made our home for the next four hours.

The Most Famous of Lines

We cherished our seats mainly for their strategic position to the playing field. From our vantage point, despite the buzzing of the crowd around us, we could express our viewpoints during the game and be clearly understood. Oh yes, Eastern had cheerleaders down on the field, but no one outdid us in the category of zeal. If we were going to pay $8 to attend a game, we were going to get our money’s worth.

More than anyone else I have known personally, Steve Perry was the master of the one liner. Some samples:

1. To a group of officials conferencing over a particular call: "Hey, will someone break up that rock pile!"

2. When an Eagle defensive linemen was blatantly being held on the corner by an offensive tackle: "Hey White Hat [referee], call the holding!"

3. After a particularly bad call: "Hey Ref, go back to the Frontier League! [Or Bi-County League, etc]"

4. After an Eastern loss: "That game was simply pitimous!"

5. When Eastern ran a particularly bonehead offensive play: "Nice call, DICK! [Sarcastic tone, referring to Eastern coach Dick Zornes]".

Which leads me to my all-time favorite one liner. It was the fall of 1986, and Eastern was getting beat up by Idaho at Albi Stadium. Eastern's senior quarterback, Rob James, was having one of his worst games ever. If he wasn't throwing an interception, he was getting sacked or was throwing the ball over the receiver's head. Late in the third quarter, while Eastern was still in the game, James threw a horrible sideline pass that was intercepted, and stopped an Eastern drive at the Idaho 40. James slowly trotted off the field, head down, to face the wrath of Coach Zornes and his coaching staff.

But a worse fate awaited Rob James before he got to the sidelines. The crowd was still buzzing as Steve rose to his feet, and even I could only guess what would emerge from his mouth this time. We had been frustrated before, but this game had become torturous. Anyway, just as Steve arose to blurt out his now famous line, the crowd suddenly quieted, as if to give his echoing cry more emphasis: "JAMES, YOU'RE SLOW, YOU'RE UGLY, AND YOU'RE TERRIBLE!!!!" I looked at Steve. He looked at me. Then he looked around at the stunned faces and now silent crowd around him. The coaches and players turned around; Rob James lifted his head to see where the noise had come from.

Steve slowly sat down. He was quiet for a few seconds, as if to soak in the indicting impact of his monumental statement. Finally, I turned to him, and as our eyes met, I softly commented: "I guess that was pretty all-encompassing, wasn't it?"

Return to Cheney

At the beginning of the 1989 season, athletic director Ron Raver announced that, for the first time since 1983, an Eastern home game would be played in Cheney. After many years of being part of the handful of fans in the vast confines of 30,000 seat Albi Stadium, we weren't sure if we liked the idea of going to a game in Cheney. Besides, with the outdoor track at Woodward Field, we would be farther from the field, and weren't sure if the view of the game would be as good.

Well, in October of 1989, we found out the answer to all of our questions. Brenda and I arrived in Cheney just in time to catch the end of the community parade, as we parked behind the bank in the downtown area. As we approached the parade route, we happened to run into Steve and Teri, and we talked and laughed as the rest of the parade passed by.

After getting our things together, Steve and I left the ladies and kids at the house while we walked across the campus to the game. It was a lovely fall day, full of sunshine, and the campus was scattered with the colors of fallen leaves. We quickly found our newly assigned seats, put our stadium chairs in place, and returned to the area behind the press box where Tony Carpini, owner of Antonio and Sons deli in Cheney, was hosting a fund raising tailgate party.

It was there that I was introduced to the wonderful pre-game ritual that Steve and I would come to cherish over the next few years. Whether it was German sausage hot dogs, hamburgers, or chicken dumplings, the vending areas that were to later become the "Food Court" were simply the perfect pre-game happening. Steve loved to hobnob with some of his fellow Eagle boosters, and it gave us a chance to talk about our lives before the game started. And Steve always topped his Food Court visit off with an Italian Soda.

Eventually, we returned to our seats for the game. Eastern's team had been through an up and down season to that point, and the coaching staff decided to start a promising freshman quarterback named Mark Tenneson, who would later set most of the career passing marks at Eastern. It was a perfect afternoon, as the weather was wonderful, the Eagles won in a blowout, and the halftime show was highlighted by the flyover of two F-15s that had flown up from Pensacola, Florida for the occasion. One of the pilots was an Air Force instructor from Cheney, who had been given permission to get some flying time by going anywhere in the country he wished.

We finished the day by slowly walking across the EWU campus back to the Perry's. Although we had a hard time admitting it, we realized that the switch to Cheney was for the better, and the events we experienced that day became a welcome routine for us in the coming years. Even now, whenever I walk across the EWU campus, I can't help but think of Steve and the wonderful experience of those sunny fall afternoons.

There are so many other memories: (1) The downpour and lighting storm at Albi in 1989, when the game was delayed a half hour, and we huddled in the tunnels under the stands while lighting struck the light standards above the stadium, (2) The last home game in 1985 against Montana, when we scraped 4 inches of snow off of our seats, and huddled in 35 degree weather while Eastern pelted the hapless Grizzlies, and the Eastern students pelted the helpless EWU cheerleaders with snowballs, (3) The ill-fated Governor's Cup game of 1988 against Idaho, when we screamed at Zornes for his inept strategy, only to be shocked by his threat to come up and take us on!, (4) The opening game of 1988 against Portland State, when Eastern "went into the tank" with 2 minutes left and the ball on their own 30 yard line, in a game that mysteriously ended in a tie with me screaming "WHAT OUR WE DOING? WHAT ARE WE DOING?” (5) The one bright spot of the 1988 season, a home thrashing of 10th ranked Boise State, when we taunted the Broncos' left cornerback all night long [HEY NUMBER 5! You're going to be toast on this play!], until he started looking up in the stands for us. I could just go on and on. Let me suffice it to say that there will probably never be two Eagle fans like Steve and I again.

A Sad Closing...and One Regret

It ended almost as surprisingly as it began. In the fall of 1991, I discovered that I was losing my job as an accountant for Potlatch Corporation in St.Maries, Idaho, and that Brenda and I would have to move. To ease the difficulty of the uncertainty that fall, I couldn't wait to get together with Steve for Eagle games, and we faithfully attended all six home games together in what was probably our most enjoyable season of games. The season ended with a disappointing overtime loss to Montana State in the gathering afternoon darkness on November 16, 1991. As Steve and I filed out of the stadium on that crisp and windy fall afternoon, we reminisced about the many games we had seen that fall, and about the prospects of next year's team. As many games as we had seen together, it was only natural to speculate on the future.

That game was to be the last game that Steve and I saw together. Despite all the time that we had spent together that fall, I never really paid attention to Steve's occasional complaints about what he thought might be ulcers, or that he might be losing weight. I just never noticed.

By the next fall, following Steve's cancer surgery in January, Brenda and I had moved to Walla Walla, and were fixing up our new house for the winter months. Teri took my place with Steve that last season, and they went to several games together. And on a dark, cold afternoon on November 14, 1992, Steve's friend Ted Diffenderfer carried my cancer stricken friend into the press box at Woodward Field to see the final home game of the season. When a Boise State field goal went wide right on the last play of the game [as I was listening by radio], a jubilant Eastern team left the field 14-13 winners.

Two weeks later, a determined EWU team fell short in a 17-14 loss to Northern Iowa; their first playoff game since that great 1985 season. On that same day, in the Nazarene church in Cheney, around two hundred friends of Steve Perry gathered to pay tribute to a friend and pastor who was loved by so many.

To this day, I tell people that the best thing that I am left with is that as far as Steve is concerned, is that I have no regrets. I did everything the Lord asked me to do for him in those final months of his life. I called him, I prayed earnestly for him, and I encouraged him with the words that Jesus was giving me. The last time I ever spoke to him, I told him how much I loved him, and how I cherished our friendship.

But I do have one regret: I still wish that I would have gone out of my way to drive up for that last game in 1992. I don't really know how it might have made things feel different, but I simply wish I had gone to be with him. Go Eagles!

On the bus to Camp Harmony, Summer, 1982

I had a very unique relationship with Steve Perry, probably one that he shared with no other friend. Or maybe he just made me feel that way. There was a chemistry and bond between us that could ignite in seconds. Part of this was that we both loved sports, and most of the same teams, so much. But it was also because I really think we understood each other so well. Although we lived rather far apart during our relationship, it was if there was a faucet of magic that could be turned on whenever Steve and I got together.

A Game of Catch

Just a simple illustration of this comes from a visit that Brenda and I made to Cheney in May of 1992. We were on our way to the weekend Bloomsday festivities, and stopped in at 821 Third Street for a brief visit on Friday afternoon. The entire Perry family was outside, enjoying the warm, sunny day and the newly sodden lawn that was now ready to be played on.

Incidentally, it was also the first day that I saw Steve's new hairdo; I was shocked! He was sporting a new buzz cut that looked so out of the ordinary for him. Though I never admitted it, I thought it looked kind of silly. And deep down inside, he was rather self-conscious about it. Teri was surveying the new yard and the sod rather closely, and remarked, "Steve, I think you could have cut it a little shorter." To which he replied, "Teri, quick buggin' me about my hair!" Ah, don't you know the stubbornness that could really come out in him sometimes.

Anyway, Steve and Teri and Brenda and I were standing around the yard talking, and finally Brooke and Chris brought out their toys to play with. The one that was of most interest to all of us was the new "Pitch and Catch" set that Brooke had just received for her birthday. I had never played with a set of the new Velcro ball and glove before, and, seeing the wonder in my eyes, Steve snatched them away and said, "Hey Scott, you've got to try this!"

So there we were, two grown boys playing a simply game of catch with a newly invented gadget. To the rest of the group there that day, it probably looked rather mundane. But Steve and I could never play a simple game of catch. Oh yeah, it started out that way. Lob...lob.... lob But after a while, we started throwing the ball high in the air, and then side to side, and then we got farther apart, and then we really started burning it in. If given the opportunity, we could have stayed out there for hours, just playing catch with this silly little set of plastic balls and gloves with patches of Velcro on them. For in us, the magic had been turned on...

Silver Lake Men's Retreat, September 1991

How exciting is miniature golf? For most people, it's about as thrilling as watching CBS news with Dan Rather at the Republican Convention. Especially when you are playing on an ordinary outdoor course with very few challenges and which is in a terrible state of disrepair.

So it was on that Saturday morning as we teed up for the big game. I played a few times through with my friends from St. Maries, but, as often was the case, Steve and I had to play "just one more game". And since he was kind of tired of the whole affair of playing this stupid course, Steve had to liven up.

So...so...so he went bananas! He would play a hole through in just a few seconds, and take his sweet time with a two-inch put. He was playing all the caroms, and taking the most difficult route for all his shots. If there was a place that his ball could get stuck, he would try it. The ball was flying all over the place, and this simple little game was starting to get more exciting.

Finally, it was the 18th hole: a rather easy straight-on putt with a small bridge-barrier to go through. Of course, whoever had designed this course had left the most boring hole to the last. I putted first, and got my ball within a few inches of the cup.

Steve set his ball down, and examined the hole. Sometimes, with a slight smirk on his face, he would say something like "looks like it breaks a little to the right", but even a comment like that was absurd on this easy hole. He was just about to swing when he looked down at the tee-off area. Unlike most of the other holes, the old, green outdoor carpeting was badly scuffed, worn all the way down to the plywood. And there, just a few feet beyond the end of this final hole, was the shoreline of Silver Lake. Steve stopped his swing, looked up at me, and gave me that silly, mischievous grin that I had seen so many times. The club went back with purpose, and the ball never saw that course again, as it gently plunked in the water several yards from shore. He ran after the ball, all the way to the shoreline, threw his right arm high in the air and screamed, "YES!". I was surprised he didn't throw his club in, too.

Joe Albi Stadium, October 1984

Of course, we loved football. I have already described it in the previous chapter. But our coming out party as crazed Eastern Eagle fans was birthed on this day, with a large (for EWU) crowd of over 10,000 at Albi to watch the first ever Governor's Cup game between Eastern and the Idaho Vandals. It was also Homecoming, and the Eagles, then a fledgling independent in the NCAA I-AA classification, were trying to show that they belonged in the Big Sky Conference. Idaho, while not enjoying the best of seasons, was still in the usual contention for the conference championship, and was a big favorite to beat the Eagles on their home field.

Because of the size of the crowd in the upper levels, our small Faith Center contingent settled on some seats down in the "Pit" with the students, just below the retaining wall separating the reserve section, and about 8 rows of seats behind the wall above the field. In the years to come, we grew quite fond of those seats, mainly because (a) the proper EWU fans didn't want anything to do with the student's sections, and (b) whenever we yelled at anybody, coaches, players, or refs, we knew they could hear us.

So we settled in our seats, completed our pre-game chatter and analysis, and got ready for the kickoff. Eastern had won the coin toss, and elected to receive. Both teams were on the field and in formation to begin. The referee was just getting ready to blow the whistle to start play. Down at the goal line for EWU, gently pawing at the artificial turf, was Craig Richardson, No. 83, a backup wide receiver with blazing speed. We had heard so much about his potential, but had seen so little results.

Suddenly, Steve turned to me, and, with a simple smile exclaimed, "Hey Scott, wouldn't it be great if Richardson took it back all the way?" The whistle blew, the Idaho kicker sent the ball deep downfield, and No. 83 took the ball in at the goal line and out he came. Like a frightened gazelle, Craig Richardson went right up the middle, avoided a few tackles, and at about midfield it was obvious that no one was going to lay a hand on him. Touchdown Eastern.

It was prophetic. Somehow it had to happen. Steve just screamed and high fives started cascading all around. For one of the first times, the magic was turned on. For Craig Richardson, who nearly returned two other kickoffs for touchdowns that day, it was the beginning of a great career at EWU, which included a couple of NCAA records and a brief shot at the pros with the Kansas City Chiefs. For Eastern, who hung on in the fourth quarter to beat the shell-shocked Vandals, it was their first entrance into a bold, new land. And for Steve and I, it was the birth of our mutual love for not only EWU football but for each other's presence at the games. I don't think an Eastern game went by in the years to come without us recalling that magical moment.

Those Phone Calls...

When Steve and I first became friends, it seemed that a week never went by without me coming over to watch a game, any game, at his house. Football, basketball, baseball.... you name it, we would watch it. And, of course, each game usually saw a fresh plate of whatever Teri had baked for a treat sitting on the corner of the coffee table. "Go ahead," Steve would grin at me, "I know you want them, you know you want them, so have at it!" Ah, there was nothing like Teri's cookies, especially those double chocolate chip cookies that she made with real butter.

But there were times I probably did wear out my welcome. I always let Steve do the inviting, but sometimes a Sunday afternoon would arrive and I hadn't received an invitation, so I went home to watch the game. At least try to!

Ring...ring.... ring. "Hello, this is Scott." "CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT LAST THROW BY DAVE KRIEG? JEEZ! HE THREW IT RIGHT TO THAT GUY! HE IS SO PITIMOUS!!!! Anyway, I'll talk to you later. Bye." A few minutes would pass. Ring...ring...ring..."Hello?" "CAN'T HE GET RID OF THE BALL WHEN HE KNOWS HE'S SUPPOSED TO? HE JUST STANDS BACK THERE AND WADDLES FROM SIDE TO SIDE UNTIL...SMACK! DOWN HE GOES. Hey, stay on the line and let's watch the rest of the half." This went on the whole game. I think Steve called me six times in one game during a game in 1983 between San Diego and Seattle. We just loved the games, and enjoyed watching them together, even if we couldn't be in the same room together.

After I moved to St. Maries, Idaho in 1986, long-distance phone charges brought much of the sports bantering to an end, but Steve still managed to sneak in an occasional call even then. After Game 5 of the 1988 championship series between the Dodgers and the Mets, in a game that Los Angeles won in twelve innings, the phone rang at 10 p.m., just minutes after the game ended. I looked at Brenda, grinned, and said: "Now who do you suppose would be calling at this time of night?" "Hello, this is Scott" "WELL YOU KNOW WHO THIS IS!!!" Or a week later, after Kirk Gibson's ninth inning homer beat the Athletics in Game 1 of the World Series, I arrived home from Spokane with a message to call Steve "as soon as possible". Then there was the memorable fourth quarter comeback by the Washington Huskies while playing at Nebraska in September 1991. The Dogs scored 27 unanswered points to win going away, 36-21. Shortly after, of course, the phone rang: "Hello?" "CAN YOU BELIEVE IT? WHAT A COMEBACK!!! IT JUST DOESN'T GET ANY BETTER THAN THIS..."

*****

January 31, 1993: The Dallas Cowboys had just defeated the Buffalo Bills to win their first Super Bowl Title in 15 years. My daughter Michelle was in the hospital that day for emergency surgery on a swollen tonsil, and I saw very little of the game. However, I was kind of glad not to be home: Steve's favorite team had won the Super Bowl, and it was just the kind of game that he would call me after. But he was gone now, and that phone would never ring.

"Wait a second," I thought, "I can't let this moment pass. I've got to call somebody, if only to continue Steve's tradition." I called information, got Don Eggart's number in Cheney, and called him from the hospital room. "Hello, Don? I'm calling on behalf of Steve Perry, because I know he would have wanted to share this moment with you." It felt so good, and we talked briefly and discussed the game. I know you're up in heaven, Steve, and I'm not on the phone; you can call anytime!

A Couple of Crazy Dodger Fans

This particular account may not sound special to some observers; it may be one of those "I guess you really had to be there" kind of moments. But it again emphasized the kind of magical moments that Steve and I enjoyed together. Please bear with me...

It was October 1988, and I had come up from St. Maries to meet some of the guys from Cheney on their way up to the Foursquare Men's Retreat at the Riverview Center on the Pend Oreille River. Since I couldn't talk any of the guys from St. Maries into joining me, I arranged to stay with the group from Faith Center.

It was an excellent retreat. The guest speaker was Tom Larson, who pastors a large Foursquare Church over on the coast. The weather was beautiful, and the fall colors in the Pend Oreille area were scintillating. The food was great, and we had our usual late evening recreation time of basketball in the field house.

But there was one moment that stands out during that retreat. It was around 10:30 pm, and some of us had gotten together to have a late night "treat" in the cafeteria. After a while, everyone had gone off to the gym except for Steve and I, and we were soon joined by Tom Larson.

Please understand that during the previous few weeks that we, as sports fans, had probably been through an experience that comes once in a lifetime. The Los Angeles Dodgers, with excellent pitching but a very mediocre lineup, had defied all the experts by winning their division in 1988. They then overcame a blown save, the suspension of reliever Jay Howell for substances in his glove, and injuries to several key players to beat the New York Mets in the National League finals. They topped off the season by beating the Oakland A's 4-1 in the World Series, highlighted by gimpy Kirk Gibson's pinch homer in Game 1, and Orel Herschiser pitching his heart out in Games 2 and 5, humming gospel hymns between innings to soothe his nerves. It was totally unreal! And we had finally sat down to share those moments.

We must have gone at it for over an hour. Pastor Tom tried to contribute to the conversation at times, but he finally gave up, sat back, and listened to the detailed commentary. We covered every highlight, every moment, and every significant detail. Steve and I both had been blessed with sharp memories, and we were both in our element, honing our skills as sports fans to the finest. "Could you believe it when Gibson hit that homer? He looked just like Roy Hobbs in the movie The Natural," Steve said, "I mean, all that was missing was the blood on the side of his uniform." "Yeah, and how 'bout the time they brought in Herschiser in relief in the 12th inning of Game 5 against the Mets?" I responded, "the only other pitcher they had available was Tim Belcher, and he was back in the team's hotel room!" "Hey, didn't you love the look on Canseco's every time he went out?" Steve came back, "and did you read about the kid that told Herschiser that he was lucky, and 'ole 'Bulldog' responded by yelling, 'oh yeah? Well grab a bat, kid!' Can you believe it?"

Tom Larson just sat through the whole thing, probably a little amazed that two grown men could be having such a rich, detailed conversation about a baseball team. But looking back, it was just another one of those magical moments with Steve Perry that I will always treasure.

Someday I will die, or will be raptured up with the church of Jesus on that appointed day. As I pass from earthly life to death to eternal life, I'm not sure exactly what will happen, but soon after I die I will be in the presence of the Lord. And I will see my Lord on that wonderful day. But I can imagine that standing near Jesus will be a familiar face, smiling brightly at me, with that silly grin on his face. The magic between Steve and I is just simply on hold right now...

The Perry Family, August, 1986

To Brooke and Chris:

For Cheney, it was a surprisingly warm and sunny April afternoon as I trudged up the long, steep hill on North 9th Street to Steve and Teri's house. Classes were out for that afternoon, and, as was usually my custom, I wanted to stop in at Steve and Teri's before heading down to the trailer court where I lived.

However, upon arriving at their house, I found the front door ajar, walked in, but there was no one home. Knowing that they would never, ever leave their house unlocked, I knew that one of them had to be somewhere nearby.

I thought I heard voices outside, so I walked out the door and started looking around. There was a grassy knoll just a little ways east of the house, right near the edge of the hill. However, it seems that there was a tree that kept most of it hidden from view. Not suspecting anything unusual, I calmly walked around the tree to get a better view of what was going on over on the knoll.

As I rounded the corner, something on the ground came into view, but I honestly couldn't tell immediately what it was. It looked like something or someone being attacked by a giant basketball. From somewhere among The Thing came a very pleasant, "Oh, hi Scott!" When I got over my initial shock and realized that it was merely a very pregnant Teri Perry out sunbathing in her bikini, I think I turned a unique shade of red because of the embarrassment.

What I did realize was that the long awaited day of Steve and Teri's parenthood was quickly approaching. Because Teri had been diagnosed with borderline toxemia (after a brief and rather uncomfortable trip to the Oregon coast with Jay and Julie Martin that Steve moaned about for years), she spent the last few weeks lying down...on the bed, on the couch, and outside on the lawn. But Steve was a faithful housekeeper, washing the clothes and dishes and vacuuming often. Although he was kind of inconvenienced, he knew that the wonderful reward of fatherhood was just around the corner.

It was just a few days later, on Saturday morning, April 28, 1984, that we received word that Steve had rushed Teri, in the midst of some pretty intense labor, to the hospital. The rest of us went about our usually lazy Saturday business. It wasn't until later that afternoon, when Steve Ronholt and I were over visiting with Jill and a bed sick Brenda that we received a call from Steve inviting us to the hospital. It didn't take much convincing; we took off!

We found our way through the maze of streets to find a parking place at Deaconess Medical Center in Spokane. I don't exactly remember who was in our group; all I can recall is Steve Ronholt, Jill, and myself. Anyway, upon arriving at the maternity ward at around 5 p.m., we went down to Teri's hospital room and found it closed, so we figured she was sleeping. We did learn from a nurse that the new little girl was sleeping in the nursery.

So we backtracked to the nursery to get a look. I can still remember pressing up against the glass to see one newborn Brooke Nicole Perry. A nurse in the corner smiled at us as we admired our dear friends' first child. You were a beauty, Brooke!

The three of us had only been standing there a few minutes when the elevator doors behind us opened and out popped your dad. He had a glow of pride and joy mixed with that grin of his as he walked towards us. After all the Jack Hayford childrearing tapes, and the dedication to "eliminate the sinful traits of the second and third generations", and all the bemoaning comments of "we're children, having children...", and the prayers of preparation by your parents for your birth, it had finally become reality: Steve Perry was a father.

I don't know if it because of his own rejection at birth or what, but Brooke, your dad cherished every one of those first few hours and days of your life. He joined us at the window, and looked down through the glass at this tiny form in the incubator, and he started mumbling something. At first I thought he was just cooing, which he was, but he was saying "Little cooders, look at the little booders, isn't she cute?...little cooder booders...."

"STEVE, SHE ISN'T YOUR STUPID CAT!" I scolded, trying to look cross. He was talking to you in the same syrupy, silly voice and goofy vocabulary that he used with that disgusting feline, Brandy. "I know," he said matter-of-factly. I was glad that issue was settled quickly.

Steve then politely asked the nurse if he could take you down to your mom's hospital room. The nurse said it would be all right as long as we all put on the sterilized hospital gowns. We all kind of giggled as we struggled with the baggy and seemingly backward garments, while Steve hauled you down to Mommy.

Please keep in mind, this was my first experience with a newborn-baby-in-a-hospital type of situation. Having three girls of my own now, it seems kind of absurd now, but at the moment, the three of us were both nervous and excited as we entered the room. This was definitely a venture into the unknown for most of us.

Teri looked great, and was so bubbly and excited when we entered. We were kind of apprehensive, but it was apparent that she was longing for our visit. The gleam in your dad's eye never diminished while we were there; you were the object of your parent's attention. While it is difficult for me to do justice to it in print, suffice it to say that the few minutes that we spent in that hospital room were one of the most cherished experiences that I ever had with your parents. They had prepared and prayed and sought the Lord and waited for you for so long, and now the day had finally arrived, even if you were a few weeks early. They had so included us, their friends, throughout this process, and prepared us for the fact that we would all be playing a role in the development of their children. This was just simply the culmination of years of faith for what God had promised them.

Before we left, Steve asked us if we wanted to hold the baby. I had never held such a tiny thing, and wasn't about to start now. "Come on, Scott, go ahead," your mom chided, so I did. Either Steve or a nurse took my picture with you while we stood there. When the pictures came back from developing, your mom and dad called me "Dr. Reardon" for a few weeks after that, for, with my glasses and hospital gown on, I looked just like a real M.D. Honest....

Brooke and Chris, you must understand that your dad invested everything he could into you while there was time. I marveled at the way he doted over you, and how he would always say "Hey Brooke! Hey Chris! Give me loves..." Though I was not around for a great deal of your growing up times, it just seemed that your dad had a great deal of love and respect for you, his kids. His way of expressing love and communicating with you has served as an excellent model for my role as a father.

You must realize that though your time with your dad was short, he probably gave more time, love, and attention into your relationship than 80% of the rest of the fathers do in their entire lifetime. I say this as a fact, and not an exaggeration. Your father provided you with a role model that you would do well to share with your own children. Don't let anyone think that you are fatherless! What your dad left with you is good enough to last a lifetime and beyond. Don't ever let go of the memories; but especially cling to the example.

Brooke, I'm sure you know that your dad loved you very much. I recall my mother-in-law talking about seeing the two of you ice skating in Riverfront Park during the winter, and you both looked like you were having such a wonderful time. I know that he cherished his "dates" with you, when you might ride the bus into town for a special treat or activity. When you were less than two, you used to hold your head down low and scowl, and then we would say "Brookie!" and you would jump up. It was great fun. I have always appreciated your mature and yet childlike attitude. I also remember that as a baby, you would only watch the commercials on TV, and once the regular show started up again, you would go back to what you were doing.

Chris, I always sensed that your dad was looking beyond your childhood and was starting to prepare you for your life as a young man. I remember his pride when he told me that one of your first statements was "Go Dodgers!". After being an avid sports fan for most of his life, your dad wanted to share as much as possible of this area of his life with you. Yet he did not want to force it upon you.

I guess that one of the costs of leaving Cheney in 1986 was that Brenda and I were not around for your early years. And then came the physical problems of ear infections and a broken arm; your dad mentioned to me several times how bad he felt for you, and how he wished he could take your place. He displayed such a love and care for you, yet his firmness was evident if you ever strayed from the boundaries.

I am very anxious to see what kind of a man you turn out to be. To your dad's friends, you and your sister are a living reminder of your father's life, as we see so much of him in you. But most of all, I will be watching you, Chris. There was a bond between you and your dad that I never could really put a finger on, yet it was quite strong. And I firmly believe that the Lord has a great plan for your life, and that He will use you in ways that far exceed even your greatest expectations.

Your dad was a brilliant man; he was well educated, well read, and knowledgeable in a broad spectrum of subjects. He is probably one of the most well rounded persons I have ever known. My wife and I both feel that it is possible that if he hadn't of gone into the ministry, that your dad would have been highly successful in the medical field. Yet he followed the call that the Lord gave him, and was highly rewarded for it.

Brooke and Chris, in closing this section dedicated to you, I want you to realize that much of my motivation for recording my memories of your father comes from you. More than anything else, this book is a gift to you, as I want you to have a written account of the memories of your dad, both good and bad. I have spent the last two years searching the far recesses of my mind for any significant memory of Steve Perry, and I hope that you enjoy most of the things that I have written. You are very special kids!

Canoe trip on the St. Joe River, Summer, 1987

In May of 1986, on rather short notice, a moving truck pulled up to our house at 329 North Ninth in Cheney and began to load up what belongings we had after one year in marriage. We definitely had mixed feelings about leaving Cheney; we had forged so many wonderful relationships in the church, and had started our marriage there. Yet we felt it was time to move on, and we both felt the Lord was blessing us with a job in a town nearby yet totally foreign to us. Yet what haunted me most about our move was the painful looks that Steve gave me during those last few weeks we were there. We both realized that things would never be the same again. It was really difficult to look him in the eye.

Except for a summer party at the Eggarts and the fall Foursquare Men's Retreat at Silver Lake, I really didn't see much of Steve that year until the football season. It was at the retreat that I was really concerned about our friendship. Steve was talking to a friend from Life Center, and I came up to join the conversation. He totally ignored me; it was painfully obvious. I started to make some small talk, and he just cut me off by saying "Scott, you're always sayin' stuff like that!" It hurt to the core.

I don't really remember if there was one event in particular that helped to re-solidify our relationship; we just came to the realization that we missed each other terribly. We had developed such a close bond and strong friendship, and sometimes actually seemed to understand each other. Though I lived 70 miles away from him, I considered Steve Perry to be my best friend, and I looked forward to every opportunity that we could have together.

*****

It was probably in that spirit that Steve and Teri invited us over for New Year's Eve at the end of 1986. I guess they couldn't quite let go of us yet, and that they wanted us around at the start of a New Year. They had just returned from a long vacation in Klamath Falls, and Steve had recorded a special show on public television that had just been released called Anne of Green Gables.

As I recall, we had been a part of a church open gym time the night before until after midnight, and spent the night upstairs at Steve and Teri's house. After a late breakfast, we gathered around the living room to watch a sample of the show. Suddenly captivated by the antics of Anne, we were well into the afternoon as Steve prepared to start the third and final episode of the show.

"You know, Teri," he suddenly observed, "each of those first two episodes were an hour each. Why did I set the recording for only an hour on the third episode, it if was going to last an hour and a half? You don't suppose..." He quickly scrambled to check the TV listings for the past week, and a disgusted look came over his face. "Dog meat!" he injected, "that last episode was from 7 to 8:30, and I set the tape to end at 8! I can't believe it!"

Well, the suspense of the third episode was heightened by the fact that the tape could come to a static filled halt at any moment. But what I will never forget was the magical time we all had that day, reveling in a story that left us feeling warm all over inside. And right near the end of the show, as Anne and Gilbert Blythe were starting to fall in love, and Anne's beloved guardian, Matthew Cuthbert, was about to die, the screen went blank.

Undaunted, Steve went into his library, and emerged with his hardback version of Anne of Green Gables. "Despite my oversight," he said, glancing at us with a twinkle in his eye, "I can't let you miss the part about when Matthew dies. It is my favorite part of the whole story." And Steve proceeded to read the touching episode of the end of dear Matthew Cuthbert's life, and the last words that he was able to mutter to his dear Anne before dying in her arms. As tough as a guy that Steve was, even he had difficulty reading the passage without a slight falter. Today, when I often think about the fact that my dear friend Steve is gone, I can't help but picture him in his favorite rocking chair, soaking in a moment that would all too soon parallel the end of his own life.

*****

One thing about our interest in sports was that Steve could never really relate to my keeping track of my former high school's teams. Walla Walla has never been dominant in any one sport for more than a favored season here and there, and so it was with great zeal that I continued to follow them whenever we were in the area. I made such a trip out to Cheney in March of 1989 to watch a regional high school playoff game between Mead and Walla Walla. Earlier in the week, I had asked Steve to go along with me, and he reluctantly agreed.

When I arrived at the Perry's that evening, Steve hadn't arrived home yet from an important church business meeting. When he finally did arrive, just minutes before the game up at Reese Court on the Eastern campus was to start, there was definitely something wrong. As he walked through the door, a downcast and discouraged face was our indication of the gravity of the moment.

"Well, I don't know what to say, Teri, but it doesn't look good," he began. "The Christian Church doesn't want us meeting on Sunday mornings anymore. I just don't know what's happening." As we headed out the door, Steve looked back at Teri and said, "We'll talk about it later".

Throughout the first half of the basketball game, I was pretty miserable; Steve was worse. The game started out well, but was beginning to turn against Wa-Hi. More importantly, Steve must have spent half the time talking to Teri on a pay phone near the concession stands. Finally, somewhere near the end of the third quarter, Steve finally admitted that he wasn't interested in the game, and had to go home.

We slowly walked back to his house, and not a lot was spoken on the way. This was obviously one of the dark hours in Steve's life, and he just wasn't sure how to handle it. All of his plans and dreams seemed to be coming down around him, and he had no immediate alternatives to offer.

When we arrived at the Perry house, it was obvious that Teri had been crying for quite some time, and that this was going to be a long evening. Steve and Teri began by expressing their feelings of discouragement and frustration, and even more tears began to flow. I was totally uncomfortable; being a witness to this process left me feeling like an intruder. I slowly began to gather my things and made plans to leave immediately.

Suddenly, Teri made a strange comment: "You know, Steve, I wonder what Craig Clum would say at a time like this." She went to the file cabinet and returned with a fistful of old letters that Craig and I had written to the Perry's during the summers of 1982-1984. We hooted at some of Craig's adventures, and carefully read his long descriptive comments (this guy could write up to 20 handwritten pages per letter). We went back and reread some of the "Swiss army knife" tales, and some of my own Yellowstone adventures. We laughed to tears about some of Craig's misfortunes in Mexico. And by the time we read that famous postcard of the guy holding the giant steelhead, I was literally rolling on the floor, holding my side. That letter from Craig during August of 1982 has excerpts that go something like this:

This is my friend; he is holding this fish that I caught because he didn't know how to work the camera. Actually, that is a lie...I'm making good money up here, and after taxes and tithe, I should have enough to make it through the year... Tell Jill and Connie and all my girlfriends not to cry for me. Tell Brandy (the Perry cat) that I miss her.

It had to be the Lord. The downcast and gloomy atmosphere that I had desperately tried to escape from turned into one of the best times that I ever spent with Steve and Teri. We had truly been given the gift of the "oil of joy for mourning". And incidentally, by the time we recovered from our side aches and returned to the subject at hand, Steve and Teri begin to discuss the idea of holding services on Sunday evenings, and we were to attend the first such service a few weeks later on Easter.

*****

One thing that I think I shared more with Steve than any other of his close friends was his love for sports journalism. When I was still in Cheney, he would pull out Sports Illustrated and read me some of his favorite quotes and comments. One article that completely sucked us in was an April, 1985 feature article by noted author George Plimpton about a pitching prospect named Sid Fynch, an Eastern religious mystic, who was trying out for the New York Mets. He supposedly "learned the art of throwing the baseball", and could throw 130 mph fastballs with perfect control. There were pictures, testimonials, comments by some of the Met's players, etc. Steve and I marveled at the reality of what this could do to the game of baseball. We just poured over the article, and re-read it in awe. It was quite a topic of conversation until....

The next week's edition of Sports Illustrated brought us back to reality. No headline follow-up story. Not even a mention about Sid in the table of contents. Just a simple disclaimer toward the front of the magazine: the whole thing had been an April Fool's joke! Boy, did we feel dumb.

Another SI feature article that was probably one of Steve's favorites came out in the spring of 1989: it was a pitch by pitch account by catcher Mike Scioscia of the Los Angeles Dodgers, on his observations of Orel Herschiser's shutout of the Oakland A's in the Game 2 of the 1988 World Series. The article was an insight into the mind of the game of baseball, and highlighted the hard work, film watching, and technical scouting that goes into a championship baseball game. It was another article that Steve read to me in its entirety, and he passed his own comments to me as he marveled at the depth and detail of the presentation.

Steve's favorite sports writer was definitely Dan Weaver of the Spokane Spokesman-Review. He liked Dan because he was often assigned to most of EWU's sporting events, but also because of his tremendous humor and creativity. Dan Weaver's specialty seemed to be satirical sports lists (things like "An Alphabetic Guide to 1988 Sports", or "The 20 Most Common Questions Asked on Monday Night Quarterback"). It seemed that whenever one of Mr. Weaver's latest list creations hit the newsstand, I could always count on a call from Steve. He would pull the list out, and read it to me verbatim, as he choked back the tears from laughter. In memory of Steve, someday I would like to go back and research some of the old Review articles on microfiche, and see what I could find.

*****

During the six years we were in St. Maries, Idaho, Steve came to visit only twice. It seemed that every time plans were made to come, there was either a conflict or one of our kids would get sick. The first time was when he and Steve Ronholt came on a Sunday night in February 1987 (or thereabouts) as Steve had been invited by Pastor Cox to speak at our church. He gave one of his familiar sermons on the story of Peter and Jesus on the water, and how Peter started to sink when he began to focus on the wind and the waves. Finally, the storm was calmed when Jesus got into the boat with the disciples. The application was that we should not focus on the wind and the waves in our own lives, but to stay fixed on the face of Jesus for direction. And that once we have Jesus in our lives, we are filled with a peace and confidence regardless of the situation.

Steve and Teri and the kids came later that summer for a brief overnight visit. I had told Steve how great the canoeing was on the St. Joe River, and convinced him to come join me for a 10-mile float trip. Though the weather was threatening, we had a great time, as the water was high enough to where we touched bottom only a few times. It was probably one of the few outdoor experiences that we ever shared, but it was a very enjoyable one.

*****

When I was hired by Potlatch in 1986, one of the agreements that I had made as a condition of employment was to sit for the Certificate Public Accountant exam. While it took me three years and one half-hearted attempt to accomplish the seemingly impossible task, I finally resolved in January 1989 to begin studying in earnest. When the May examination date finally rolled around, I knew I had prepared as well as possible, and that I had no regrets even if I failed. What I had once thought impossible now seemed within the realm of possibility.

For the three days of testing, I had made arrangements to stay with my old roommates Steve Ulrich and Steve Ronholt, in the house that they shared with Rich White in Cheney. While all they had to offer was a place to eat and a couch to sleep on, I appreciated their hospitality, and it was actually a great place to unwind between tests.

But my ultimate host and supporter was Steve Perry. In the two times it took me to pass the test held on the Eastern Washington campus, Steve was my encourager, confidant, and constant lunch partner. I vividly remember the times either before tests or during the lunch break, walking with Steve around Cheney or the EWU campus. His presence neither broke my concentration or caused me to get uptight about the coming task, but did wonders to help me relax for the grueling exam (which, in it's entirety, covers three days and over 19 hours of testing). Each day after taking me to a delightful lunch spot, Steve and I would walk back to the test sight, and he would be encouraging me all the up to the door. Finally, as we said goodbye, Steve would smile and say, "Go get 'em, Scott! You know I'll be praying for you over the next few hours!"

Today, you can find a framed CPA certificate on the wall of my office at work. Of all things that I hang on my wall, it is probably the thing that I'm most proud of. To me, it signifies one of the greatest achievements that I have accomplished, and it stands for a great deal of hard work, dedication, faith in the Lord, and the prayers of many who are close to me. But even more than that, it reminds me of the part that Steve played in this accomplishment, of those warm spring days in Cheney, of blooming trees and barbecue chicken, of Steve's gentle support and encouragement.

*****

Besides the Eastern Eagles, Los Angeles Dodgers, and Seattle Seahawks, Steve and I were always faithful Seattle Mariner fans. Though they had been losers for years, we faithfully listened to the M's on the radio on hot summer evenings. Our phone conversations usually centered on the arrival of their young new centerfielder, Ken Griffey, Jr. We made it our intention to someday go see him play.

In the spring of 1991, as the Mariners started out their season in the throes of a six game losing streak, we set a date to go watch the Mariners and Texas Rangers in late May. Because we were planning on watching two games over the weekend, the rotation was looking more and more like it would include the legendary Nolan Ryan in one of the games. Well I got the tickets, and Steve made the motel reservations, and after taking care of a few business items, we left Cheney for Seattle on a Friday morning.

We had a great trip over. As usual, Steve brought one of his favorite books, a collection of popular sports short stories. As I drove along, he begged me to let him read me one of his favorites, a story about two young men in love with the same women, and the contest being a one-hole golfing exhibition that would span two cities. The unique event and the unusual ending (read it yourself!) captured our imaginations as we covered the miles of road along eastern Washington. It seemed like no time that we had crossed Snoqualmie Pass and arrived at our motel near Sea-Tac Airport.

I realize in writing this that a lot of these events may seem quite ordinary to the casual observer, but to Steve and I, this was a magical weekend (besides the fact that the Mariners lost both games). I can still remember Steve handing his ticket over at the gate, walking through the turnstile, and softly exclaim, "We're in!" The opportunity to see his first Major League baseball game, combined with his first view of the Kingdome, was quite a thrill for him. We had great seats, and marveled at the cavernous spaces of this indoor stadium.

One unusual event that I do remember was the second night at the Dome, when after we settled in our seats, Steve explained that "he wanted to walk around a bit". He was gone for the longest time, and made it back to his seat just in time for the national anthem. He was flushed and nervous when he got back, and wasn't saying much. "What happened to you?" I asked. "You're as white as a sheet." "Well," Steve explained, "I wanted to see what it was like up high, in the 300 section. I walked all the way to the top of the roof, and looked down. It's steep up there! Anyway, I had to stop a few times on the way down, just to hold on to a firm seat for a while. No wonder they call it the 'Nose Bleed Section'". He kind of chuckled as he related his misfortune to me.

The next afternoon, we parked near the wharf and walked all around the downtown area. We had a great time looking at some of the waterfront shops, and at the sights and sounds of the sea front. Later on, we walked up to the old grand hotel (whose name slips my mind) in the city center, and went exploring in some of the back rooms. Not trying to be conspicuous, we just checked any door that was open, which one time landed us in a janitor's closet. The up side was finding a formal dining room totally decked out for an afternoon business meeting, and finally, after having our curiosities satisfied, we headed back to the car after a stop at the Starbuck's coffee shop.

For lunch, we drove down to the Seattle Center, and checked out the food fair in the pavilion. I distinctly remember a homeless gentleman out front, crooning Elvis and Beatles favorites on a foam rubber toy guitar. His guitar lid was propped open with a hand scrawled note leaning on its side, pronouncing his mission in life: "Feed me!". Steve and I walked by the man on our way back from lunch, and further down the walkway, he turned to me and said, "Now that's how I think my church thinks of me sometimes. Just 'feed me!' "

We were about to head back to our hotel at SeaTac when Steve exclaimed, "You know, I've never seen Husky Stadium before...why don't we go over and take a look?" So we headed over to the university district, and found a parking space near the University of Washington campus. We had a wonderful time walking through the campus and along the great walkway to the stadium, which is highlighted by a shimmering fountain of water. But upon reaching the stadium, we saw a few people playing on the turf, and, as this was May, some others working out on the track. But it seemed every entrance was locked. We started looking around for an unlocked door, and after finally having circled almost the entire stadium, found a small hole in a chain link fence near the south grandstand.

A great thrill went through Steve as we made our way down to the sideline and sat on the bench on what is normally the Husky sideline. "Wow!", he said, "This looks bigger than I thought it was. It sure makes Autzen Stadium [in Eugene] look small!" We watched two guys on the field who looked like pretty good kickers, one of whom was also booming some pretty impressive punts. "Must be some of the Husky kickers", I guessed, "and I'll bet one of them is Travis Hanson [the Washington varsity kicker]." Well, when one of the guys on the track said something to "Jason", I suddenly realized that we were watching the Hanson brothers, Jason and Travis, going through a spring workout. We stayed a little while longer before heading back to the car. It may not seem like much, but it was an experience that was one of the highlights of the trip for Steve.

One piece of clothing that Steve was most proud of was his Eastern Eagles baseball cap. He had purchased a fitted cap for the many times that he went to watch games, and after the sport was dropped by Eastern in 1989, he cherished that hat, as it would never be worn by an Eastern team again, as far as we knew. On this particular trip to Seattle, he wore it constantly, and always prided himself in its fit and sleek look on his head.

After our tour of the campus, in which Steve had left his hat behind, we got back to the car and Steve reached into the back seat to get his hat. "Hey, where'd my hat go?" he roared. He fumbled around for a moment, only to find it under the daypack that I had flung into the backseat. A crumpled and wrinkled EWU baseball cap emerged, and he just about smacked me as he held up his rag and murmured, "Now how am I suppose to wear this again?"

On our way back home, we promised that we were going to make this an annual event, as the trip had been so enjoyable it was almost magical. As it turned out, it was the only such trip that Steve and I would ever make, and I still believe that the whole experience was a gift from God, as it was the last time we would spend such an extended time together. After returning to the Kingdome in May of 1994 for my first M's game since that trip with Steve, I hope that I can begin such a tradition with my own pastor and his son.

Steve and Teri on the Washington coast, Summer, 1982

It was Thursday, January 2, 1992. Suddenly called to Lewiston on a surprise interview just hours earlier, I had driven down Highway 95 in a rainstorm, listening to a Sonics game on the way. I wasn't particularly excited as I settled into my unspectacular room for the night; recently I had been through so many interviews during my job search that they were all beginning to feel the same. It was with that sense of resignation that I started to flip channels to see what was on.

It wasn't long until the phone rang; Brenda was calling to make sure I had made it down okay, but I also sensed a bit of urgency in her voice. "Julie Martin called this evening with some news, Scott, and it doesn't sound good", Brenda began. "Apparently Steve has some sort of tumor in his stomach area." The words at first didn't carry full impact..."some sort of a tumor"...it almost didn't seem real. Here was the most fit guy I had ever known in my life, who worked out with a discipline like no other, and now he had cancer? And yet I begin to recall the complaints that Steve had made during the fall about his stomach...it suddenly began to flood back.

Brenda and I talked a little while longer before we said goodnight. It took me a while to sleep, but rest finally did come. I just couldn't stop thinking about Steve and what was going on in his life. I couldn't wait to talk with him.

For the next few days, Julie relayed the information to us as it became available. The doctors had done an upper GI (gastro intestine) examination, and during the biopsy had discovered a definite spread of cancer. I remember one of my first conversations with Steve early in that week. We both shared our shock in the situation, how things like this always happen to someone else, but not to yourself or your close friends. "Scott, the most amazing thought came to me while I was walking around Cheney this morning running errands,” Steve explained. "I looked down at my chest and thought, 'There is something inside of me that's trying to kill me.' And I can't get that initial moment of realization out of my mind," he continued. "When I left the hospital on Thursday afternoon, the last thing I said to the doctor was, 'Hey Doc, this couldn't be stomach cancer, could it?' And he assured me with 'Steve, that's the one thing you don't have!' And I returned just hours later, and the first thing he said was, 'Well, Steve, you were right, and I was wrong...'"

In the midst of Steve's personal trials, I was going through some troubles of my own. The job I had interviewed for with Potlatch was not something I was comfortable with, and even though I was offered the position a week after being interviewed, I essentially decided to turn it down. Being threatened with the potential loss of my promised severance pay, and not sure if my employment would continue if I rejected the new offer, I turned to Steve for guidance. I remember calling him that Friday afternoon before his scheduled surgery date.

I really didn't know what to say. I felt almost foolish asking Steve for comfort and advice in light of his circumstances, but he had always been there whenever I needed him. With great anticipation I dialed the number, not even sure if he would available to talk. But when I heard the trademark "Hlow?" at the other end, I began to blurt out my dilemma to him in bits and pieces. He listened very attentively, not offering anything in return. After hearing the whole story, there was a brief silence, followed by Steve's encouragement to me: "Well Scott, you know what I always say: 'The peace of God is always the number one criterion'.

It was the peace that Steve spoke of that carried me through the next several days. It pulled me up and lifted me over my momentary troubles, and strengthened me like never before. By the time Brenda and I arrived at the hospital to see Steve on Sunday night before his impending surgery, the Lord had calmed me and washed over me with his peace.

Steve was surprisingly upbeat that night, and he looked great despite his weakened condition. He was a model patient, doing everything the nurses asked him to do, pills to take, preparatory showers, etc. His friends surrounded him during this, the biggest crisis of his life, and he fed off of our encouragement. However, once he did turn and stare out the window, and exclaim to us that "he and Joe [Witwer] had driven past several restaurants that night, where people were filling themselves with all sorts of garbage, and yet he was the one with stomach cancer."

That night, Steve explained to us all how the Lord had showed Steve how "his grace was sufficient" for him. That grace from God was enough to handle the circumstances and trials of the current day. But to look a week or month in the future was too much; the grace available was only enough for today. Steve had posted a card from one of the kids at church on his hospital room wall, with a rainbow and the words "GRACE FOR TODAY" written boldly below.

The next day during Steve's operation, I propped myself up against the wall, and took notes on everything I saw. Not only did it help pass the time through the hours of surgery, but it also helped me focus on Steve and the fact that I was trying to communicate with him. I realize that some of the contents of this letter may be difficult to read, and that much of this time was not a pleasant experience. Here are my observations from that day, in the exact format that I presented it to Steve two days later...

THE DAY OF STEVE'S SURGERY

Monday, January 13, 1992

Sacred Heart Medical Center

Spokane, Washington

10:52 am Brenda and I arrived at the hospital about ten minutes ago. We were so relieved to hear that you had gone into surgery earlier than anticipated. Teri said that you had your sense of humor right up until the time they wheeled you away. Your parents seemed to be relieved that the process had begun.

I am keeping this journal of events so that you can kind of get a feel for what went on out here while you were in surgery. Knowing your penchant for detail and information, I know that you would treasure the report. I hope to interject some of my own feelings and thoughts about you during this time.

This morning's verse for me: "For I am confident of this very thing, that He who began a good work in you will complete it until the day of Christ Jesus." (Philippians 1:6). I have a confidence and resolve in my spirit that the Lord is going to do more than just "pull you through", but rather He will do it in a way that you had never dreamed.

Teri's mother said that "she didn't want her to get out of her sight" right now. Teri's uncle and your parents have been talking to the Assembly of God and Baptist ministers from Cheney.

Steve, you really looked great last night. I had prepared myself for something quite different. Other than being a little thin, you had great color and were acting your usual self.

I could really appreciate what Joe said last night about remembering where we were when we first met you. You really are a person who makes an immediate impression on strangers. I remember talking with you and Craig in front of Chuck's house in September 1982. The memories of the past nine years have come flooding back: EWU football games, movie nights at your house, letters exchanged during the summer, those calls to St. Maries after a big game on TV, the progress of the church being in your home to the time we moved to the Christian Church, Swiss Army knife tales, your three point plans and bloopers, morning prayer breakfasts, our trip to Seattle last year...

I'm not finished with you yet, Steve. I know that as good as the past has been, the future will be better. Brenda and I may move farther away, and our visits to Cheney might become less frequent. But I look forward to another Mariner weekend this year, and more of those phone calls when you blurt out: "Well, you know who this is!"

11:15 am Surgical Waiting Room. Those I see in attendance: Bill Campbell, your mother-in-law, Erin Herman, Teri's uncle, your parents, Teri, Rick Knoll, and Joe and Elaina Witwer.

The mood is one of just reflection and waiting. I am anxious for an early report. Since I am rather new to this, I don't really know what to expect. We are here for you, Steve.

Just why am I here? I thought about that last night and this morning. I feel that part of me is on that operating table right now. All of us here have exchanged major investments in our relationships with you. I have always considered you to be more than just a friend, but as a true "kindred spirit". I have never felt the need to verbalize my love for you, because I have always felt that it was understood. Last night I really just wanted you to know how much I loved you. As men, we sometimes see such experiences as being lacking in "macho", but at a time like this I could put my ego in the trashcan.

11:28 am Teri and your mother are sitting quite close, talking casually about things. She is a one-of-a-kind woman, Steve. She just looked at the sign that said "Doctor's Consultation Room", and turned to me and said, "You're not going to let that doctor tell us anything bad, are your Scott?" Teri has always been an excellent role model as a Christian woman, wife and homemaker. She is talking to Joe and Elaina about Brooke's interest in the surgical process.

11:38 am I occasionally look across the room and my eyes meet Joe's. I think I see the same thing he does: we are here with the resolve and conviction that Jesus will heal you. I am having a hard time being real jovial right now. My wife would probably say that I had my "game face" on. But like I told you last night, there is no other place on this earth where I would rather be right now.

11:43 am The phone in here rings occasionally, and we all seem to be conscious of it. No word yet.

Bill is talking about your description of the surgical process, and how "awe inspiring" God has created our bodies to withstand surgery and adjust to a loss of one or more major organs. He is saying how the surgeon wanted to roll the liver in his fingers and check for cancer. As intense as it seems, it really is amazing. He, like myself, never realized that a person could live without a stomach.

11:52 am First report: "He is doing fine; it will be a few more hours yet". Joe is saying that the most difficult process is attaching the small intestine to the esophagus. He is explaining the incision in the upper left chest that they may have to make.

11:56 am Teri needed to go off and cry a little. Elaina is with her now. No matter how strong the faith, or how firm the resolve, we all have felt overwhelmed by the human side.

11:58 am Judy Schroeder just arrived, and she is talking with your mom and Erin. Your mother and father have taken their own little spot in the corner of the room. I see a great deal of concern in their faces. This may be one of the most difficult of times: the waiting, the uncertainty, the passing of time...

I am thinking about the trip we took to Seattle last year, and the wonderful time that we had. I keep playing back your comment as we were driving into Seattle: "You know, Scott, our wives would probably like to be here, but THIS IS A GREAT 'GUYS' TRIP!"

12:05 pm Sue Eggart has just arrived. As people trickle in, they are anxious for any tidbit of information. Teri is still in the consultation room with Elaina. It is evident that you are loved by many. You're kind of like George Bailey: "The richest man in Bedford Falls". You have a large circle of quality friends.

I look over and see that Bill is in prayerful meditation. Joe is talking with Rick, and your parents and Sue Eggart seem to be enjoying each other's company.

12:13 pm Changing of the shift at the information station. "Fran" is here for the afternoon. She will be the one answering the phone that we all wait for to ring.

12:18 pm A doctor walked in, and we all looked at him in anticipation. Fran said, "Are you with the Evans'?" We will have to wait longer for more news.

12:21 pm Erin, Brenda, and Bill are discussing the spy novel that Bill is reading. Fran has now taken over at the desk, and she can't believe that there are twelve people in the room for one patient. "You mean all 8..9..10 of the people are here for him?” I heard her say.

Another memory: May 30, 1983. I am sitting on the banks of Shoshone Lake in Yellowstone, with nothing but snow and ice for miles. I thought I was coming to fish here, but the lake is frozen over! I pulled out a notebook and starting writing you a letter, which I think contained one of those epic "Swiss Army knife" stories (...and where would I be today without my stainless steel friend?). As I remember, I sent you about ten pages of 3 X 5 notebook pages.

The surgery continues. I try to picture what is transpiring in that operating room. You're being in there with your chest open, tubes everywhere, with a doctor probing for every deadly cell he can find.

12:31 pm An attendant came in. We think that some information is coming shortly. Over to my right, Bill and Erin have really been going at it discussing this spy novel. Erin can't wait for Bill to read further so they can discuss more of the plot.

Teri's mother and uncle have been quietly discussing the events of the past week. Joe has just returned. I can tell that he wants some information.

Norris Norman, from the Baptist Church in Cheney, just sat down next to me. He has been talking to me about his years as a hospital and police chaplain. Brenda brought down the guest book from your room for others to sign.

1:14 pm Rick and I went downstairs for some food. I had a pepperoni pocket and Coke. Just something to hold me over. Jay and Julie Martin just arrived. Steve Spooler is across the room.

We are growing anxious waiting for news. Norris is sitting next to me, and is asleep against the wall. Elaina just left the room where Teri is waiting, and your mother is now alone in there with her. The players are all here, Steve. We love you. Hang in there.

Steve Spooler, Erin, Jay, Julie, and Brenda are having an animated conversation in the corner. Your mother emerged briefly to get her Bible, and has returned to be with Teri. Teri has long since taken over the "Doctor's Consultation Room" as her personal command post. Bill is back to reading his spy novel. Jay and Julie are kidding Joe about some blooper that he apparently made in all three of his sermons yesterday.

Julius Jepson and his wife have taken a seat near me. Jay is riding me about the "Book of Perry" and what has become of all those bloopers. You know how Jay's presence tends to bring that "Dick Van Dyke" atmosphere to any group. Well, his enthusiasm and humor is very refreshing right now.

Over in the corner, in their place next to the lamp, I again see the looks of deep concern in the faces of your parents. It is now 1:28 pm: you've been in there for more than three hours now.

"Dear Jesus, hold the hand of my friend Steve right now. Be his complete strength, peace, and life in this dark hour. Lord, I am confident that You have a great plan for this dear friend of mine. I believe that Your healing of his body will be complete. As the doctors complete this process, I pray that every foul cell of cancer be removed from his body. I pray that his healing and this process will be successful to an extent that none of us could ever imagine."

Norris is starting to stir next to me. He said he had a pretty tough night.

1:33 pm The noise level in the room has increased. Many are laughing and having active conversation. I look at the door next to me, and wonder how Teri is doing in there. She's been in there for the last two hours. There are now 18 of us here waiting for news.

1:40 pm Teri is in the private room with Erin and her mother. She is reading the comments that people made in the guest book. Norris said that he wishes we could all be out of there in the next 20 minutes.

1:55 pm The nurse has gone in to talk to Teri. "Still working; not too much longer". Today's game is nearly over. There is laughter coming form Teri's private room. We now understand that you had to wait a while before going in, and that the process has taken less time than what we perceived.

Jeannine Knoll has just arrived, and is going in to see Teri. The atmosphere is upbeat and anticipatory.

2:06 pm Just took my eighth trip to the men's room. The mood in the waiting room has quieted. Many are reading magazines or the newspaper. I realize at times this dialogue will sound rather mundane. This is definitely one of those times. When will the phone ring? When will the doctor come in? How much information will we get?

Bill' spy novel is shaping up. It looks like he's reached the last chapter.

2:19 pm Judy had to leave to get her kids. Ah! The phone rings. False alarm...

Another memory: Fall, 1986, at the Men's Retreat at Silver Lake. Wait...phone rings again. The doctor is ready to talk to Teri in a few minutes. Apparently things are winding down. We now understand that you are in recovery.

2:28 pm Penny Spooler has just arrived. Norris has to leave for a doctor's appointment. I will reach him on his pager: (509)623-6291.

2:32 pm Doctor Cammack has arrived. Comments:

*3/4 of the stomach was cancerous

*Large cancerous lymph node was adjacent to tumor

*Attachment was made 1" up esophagus

*Cut out hardness up into diaphragm.

*There is 30 feet of intestine under the esophagus

*Rest of belly (gall bladder, rectum, liver) is OK

*Tumor was stuck to pancreas. It stuck to it, but came right off. Some fat had to be cut away from stomach.

*Tube has been placed directly into small intestine.

*Big worry: sewing area on esophagus "loves to leak". General suction was placed on it. An abscess in that area can be painful and troublesome.

*There were very few big lymph nodes. The pathologist will go through about 30 nodes before they will know for sure.

*Dr. Cammack's personal theory: "All of us have cancer periodically. Our body usually defeats it".

*With time, the tube will stretch out.

*Teri: "Will the body have trouble absorbing food?"

*Answer: No. 27 feet of intestine will do the job. Vitamin B12 shots will be required once per month. Eat, chew well, and food will start down.

*Your underweight condition prior to surgery, combined with the loss of your stomach, will never allow you to be overweight.

*The tube will feed you when you don't feel like eating.

*Again, small nodes may be cancerous. Positive nodes raise risk of cancer coming back.

*Doctor said he would not have tried this procedure on an eighty-year-old man. This treatment was aggressive because your age allowed it.

*Chemotherapy may be used to zap any cancerous nodes. Chemo for the stomach is often tied to your mental attitude.

*Pathologist report will determine level of chemo. You may be sick for 2-3 days a month, for six months. Chemo is used to "hedge the bet".

*This operation was "enough to live through this".

*Doctor (to Teri): "There are much too many decisions to try to make right now"...."How are the kids doing"...

*[Someone asked a question] "No, the liver was not touched. I left the gall bladder...I was tired."

*Physically, you did well during the surgery. You may have lost a unit of blood.

*It will take a while for you to comprehend what happened. You have a "node positive".

*Will be kept in recovery room overnight. Teri can go in at 5 pm tonight.

*Tube in the nose was sewn to lip.

*Doctor instructed Teri to keep careful notes for asking questions.

2:57 pm We are all in a reflective manner. We are encouraged, and are ready to continue the fight. Brenda and I will be leaving soon. Jepson: "The Lord will be glorified through all of this". He wanted to know if there was anything he or his church could do for the family. Jay was observing that this is just one of many things that the Lord is doing in Cheney. We are all positive. Teri has been handling the news well. Lots of hugs, very few tears. A lot of reflecting. Bill has left and is anxious to get home to his wife to give her the news. Good night, Steve. We love you...

* * * * *

The theme of "grace for today" continued to build in Steve's spirit in the days following his surgery. I vividly remember the times I visited him in the hospital, first on the Wednesday following his surgery, and later Brenda and I visited him the following Sunday morning. During that second visit, he had just had his respirator removed, and was breathing and functioning much easier. He began to tell us about a wonderful encounter that he had the night before.

Steve had received many visitors on Saturday, and his friends and family had just showered him with their love and support. Later that evening, after everyone had left and Steve was able to eat dinner, he was finally alone. He just lay on his bed, and began to reminisce about the day, and the wonderful love that had been poured out on him. And next, as he put it, "it was if the presence of the Lord swept through my room, and all I could sense was his love..." And the experience caused him to weep, to be broken before the awesome presence of a loving and caring God. Even as he related to us this incredible account, tears were welling in his eyes. He described how he began sobbing, crying out to the Lord, and giving him thanks.

Steve went on: "So I was laying there, crying my eyes out, and who do you suppose should walk into the room? Go ahead, Scott! Who is the last person you would expect to see at a time like that?" I began to ponder the question, but Steve never let me answer. "Craig Clum!" he hollered, "good 'ole Craig just innocently walked into the room...you know, Mr. Macho...and he sees me there with tears just pouring from my eyes. And he doesn't have a clue what to say! He just sat there, staring at me for about a minute, until he finally managed to ask, 'Is everything okay, Steve?' Oh man, I just about started to lose some of my stitches right there! Don't tell me that the Lord doesn't have a sense of humor!"

A few days later, Steve went home to begin the long process of recovery. Over the next few months, I was able to see him several times, as I was going through my own transition of moving my family from St. Maries to Walla Walla. I wasn't really able to talk with him at length until our annual "Couples Dinner" in May.

It was a tradition that we had started in 1990, when some of us went out to dinner after Steve and Debbie Ronholt's wedding. The next year, we formalized the event by including the Perrys, Jay and Julie Martin, Kelly and Diana Walters (Brenda's sister), and ourselves, and having a wonderful time at the 1881 Restaurant at the Sheraton. This particular year, we had waited until Steve had recovered to the point to being able to enjoy our night out, and Steve and Teri requested that we dine at the Atrium at Cavanaugh's Inn at the Park in Spokane.

It was a lovely garden setting, and we were just glad to be together again under fairly normal circumstances. I didn't want the conversation to focus on Steve's recovery, but to just let things flow. One of the more humorous events of the evening turned out to be a metal nut that Brenda discovered in her beef stir-fry. As the waitress attended to the problem with an air of nervous embarrassment, Steve kind of tongue-in-cheek started making the waitress sweat even more. "Hey Brenda!" he suggested, "tell her that you want your meal free, and to throw in a free night here at the hotel. It's the least they can do!" The waitress, seeing she had met her match in this prankster, backpedaled a bit and left the table. Minutes later she returned with the hostess, and they both profusely apologized, offering to pay for Brenda's meal while giving her an additional $20 gift certificate. I am convinced that if Steve had been around for our 1993 dinner, he would have concealed a screwdriver in his pocket and pretended to "find it" in his dinner salad. The guy just never let up...

As the night wore on, we eventually came around to asking Steve about how things were going. He started by describing the basics of his recovery, and how difficult some of the home devices had been to use. But finally he shared with us the deep feelings of his heart: "Teri and I and the kids thank the Lord for my healing every day. We will continue to pray for this indefinitely. I really don't know why all of these things happened to me, but I do know that there is a purpose. At times I get ahead of myself, and start thinking weeks, months, or even years down the road. And it is at those times that I get a sense of discouragement. It really is true; I only have enough grace for today. When I go in for my periodic blood tests, I need more grace than what I needed the day before. But it always is enough. Always enough...."

It was only five months later that Steve's life again hung in the balance. He had recovered so well, and was started to get his strength and athleticism back. We were all so encouraged, and gave God the glory for what He was doing in Steve's life.

But later, in August, just when things looked so bright, our hopes suffered a cruel blow when Steve returned to the hospital for surgery to remove part of his intestine. It was during the surgery that the worst fears of the doctors were revealed: the cancer had spread, and all medical possibilities were being eliminated.

The last few weeks of Steve's life were easily the most intense times that I have ever walked through. In writing my observations, I realize that what I experienced was quite different, and, in many cases, farther removed compared to what Steve's friends in Cheney bravely weathered. In that light, I have written this section not only to document my own feelings and experiences during that time, but also to commend those of Steve's closest friends and family who stuck by him to the very end. They are the ones who held on tight to their faith in Christ and never doubted His ability to heal...

Brenda and I felt a strong urge to go and pray for Steve on Sunday evening, October 25, as his condition had worsened to the point that he could no longer eat. I talked a bit with Jay Martin before coming up, and he said that Steve could use all the support possible. Our pastor at Valley Church encouraged us to have a cloth anointed and prayed over, to represent the prayers of our church. We had never before been in such a process, but we were eager to do whatever the Lord required of us.

After a very emotional time of prayer at our church, Brenda and I immediately headed up to Cheney that Sunday afternoon. We were just going up and coming back; there was to be no other agenda. We prayed and sang on the way up, confident that the Lord had a specific purpose for the visit. We approached Cheney with full confidence as to our mission at that time.

We were simply not prepared for what we found at the Perry home that night. Steve was extremely discouraged, and was beginning to grow weak. Teri didn't say much, and lacked much of her usual vibrancy. There was a sense in that living room that Brenda and I will never forget: discouragement was so thick in the air you could reach out and grab it. We stayed for about 20 minutes, turned around, and went home.

For the first time in the whole ordeal, I was genuinely shaken by the events that were surrounding Steve and Teri. Steve's resolve seemed to be fading, and Teri seemed to be far off. I knew that warfare was taking place, but I wasn't sure to what extent. It was at this time that I sought the face of the Lord like I never had before.

To help identify with Steve during this crisis, I began to pour over the Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis, which were probably Steve's favorite pieces of literature. I marveled as I reread the familiar stories, particular the episode in the final book, The Last Battle. I soaked in the adventures of Jill and Eustace and King Tirian, the last of the kings of Narnia, and how in the end they were being pushed by the enemy toward the black and mysterious open door of a stable. Beyond the stable door was something both frightening and wonderful, as enemy soldiers were being thrust through the same door with shrieks of terror. In the end, after passing through the stable door, a very surprising and glorious fate befell the heroes.

We, the friends of Steve Perry, were involved in a battle, a spiritual and sometimes physical war. We were joining Steve as he was being pushed closer and closer towards this unknown stable door. I interpreted this unknown to be the healing hand of Christ, which Steve had sensed even back in March "had yet to leave the fingerprints of God on this situation." Whatever the case, I knew that for whatever reason, God himself had ordained for me to be here at this time as a support for my friend. Though I was offering encouragement from a distance, I felt as though I was right in the middle of the fray.

Sometime during the following week, after talking with Pastor Joe from Life Center, I felt it was time to go back and support Steve and Teri in prayer. I didn't exactly know what my overall purpose or commission was, only that I was to go to the church in Cheney and pray throughout the day. It was an adventure, the outcome of which would both surprise and humble me like very few other encounters with my Lord.

Brenda, our girls, and I arrived just in time for the Sunday evening service at Faith Center on November 1. The Foursquare District office was holding a special service of support, with district supervisor Cliff Haines ministering. Much to our surprise, Steve was present, sitting right in the front row, and I could barely hold back the tears when I saw him rise to take his seat to lead worship that night. Though too weak to play his guitar, Steve had that same determined look, the same kind that Brenda used to see in him, "militantly strumming his guitar" despite the circumstances around in him. That night, more than ever before, I realized that my dear friend was definitely not a quitter.

Cliff spoke from Isaiah 55:8-9, giving Steve a specific word of encouragement: "Remember Steve, God's thoughts for you are better than your thoughts for you." He related the story of how he had ordered bark dust to be delivered to his driveway. Cliff had spread out a small tarp to hold the load, and looked on in astonishment as a large dump truck pulled up, and proceeded to fill his entire driveway with bark dust. "We think so small, in our terms," he continued, "when God has a much bigger plan."

Later that night, we stopped in at the Martin's for soup before heading into Spokane to spend the night. Jay and Julie carefully apprised us of the desperateness of the situation, and how discouraged Teri had become. They encouraged us to pray not just for Steve but for Teri as well. By the time we were finished talking and headed out to the car, I was really hot. I was angry with our enemy, who comes to steal, kill, and destroy. I was determined more than ever to continue in the battle.

I rose early the next morning, and arrived back in Cheney by 9:30. After borrowing a key from the Hermans, I headed straight for the church. I prayed, sang, meditated, and rested there until early evening. It was a cleansing experience, a personal time between me and the Lord. It was probably one of the greatest times of one on one communication that I had ever had with Jesus.

But there was seemingly nothing to show for it. That evening at the Perrys, all I saw was Steve crying out in pain, and Teri in tears. The hour that I spent at their house shook me deep inside. And yet I was determined to see this whole thing through.

After the prayer meeting that night (which was being held every night), I drove back to Spokane in silence. It seemed that all my efforts that day had come and gone with no response. But who was I giving glory to? Was there really anything that I could offer? No! This was Jesus' work; this was in His hands. As I drove on, I told the Lord that I didn't care what I saw with my eyes; I was going to continue on. Unknown to me, at that very moment, hands of faith were being laid on Teri, and the deliverance from discouragement was so real to her that she described them as "claws being removed from her back".

I returned to Cheney the next day with Brenda, who went to have lunch with Brooke at her school. I had heard earlier in the day that Teri had been delivered from that dark discouragement, which was evidenced by a new look of hope and confidence in her face. Later that night, as I sat with Steve and Teri in their living room, I had probably one of the richest times that I had ever had with this dear couple that I loved so much. Steve, though somewhat sedated, was quite peaceful, and was able to contribute a lot to our conversation. With a radiant face, Teri told me that she had her hope back, and was ready to continue. We had a wonderful time reminiscing about the past; I even laughed at Steve because just when you thought he was asleep, he would suddenly interject some humorous insight into an incident. I will never forget the treasure of those two hours that I spent at the Perrys that night. It was so glorious that Steve thought that he had felt the sensation of ministering angels rubbing his feet.

The next night, Wednesday, November 3, ended our brief stay in Cheney; it was time to return home. I spent the day in prayer again, and stopped by the Perry's at 5 pm, where Brenda picked me up. We said our goodbyes, and started to head out the door. But suddenly, I turned back to Steve, took a few steps toward him, and looked him straight in the eyes. "Steve," I insisted, "I will never see you in this condition again." With that I turned and walked out the door, unaware that what I had said would soon come to pass.

Over the next week, I called Steve at all times of the day. I sought the Lord for counsel, so that whatever I said to Steve would be guided by the Lord. I could sense that all of his friends were doing the same, being careful not to interject their own human desires. It was a difficult, yet exciting, time.

One humorous tidbit that Steve shared with me during this stressful time was about his television time. “You know, Scott”, he mentioned casually one day, “I’ve had a lot of time on my hands, and I have been watching some of my favorite reruns lately. I don’t think I’ve missed an episode of “The Rockford Files” in the past week. No matter how bad it gets, you can always count on Jim Rockford and his dad ‘Rocky” to get out of whatever mess they’re in!”

In our final phone conversations, Steve and I steered far clear of denial of the situation at hand. We talked about the reality that he was physically dying, and yet that did not preclude him from being healed. He said that he had a dream about being healed, and part of the dream was an appearance on the "700 Club" to testify about it. He said he had read obituaries in the paper about people who had died of cancer, yet he was not shaken. "Scott, I am going to believe to the end."

In my last talk with him, I shared with him the account of the stable door in The Last Battle, and how Aslan, the great lion, had commended the king with the words "Well done, Tirian, last of the kings of Narnia, for you remained strong in Narnia's darkest hour." I also expounded on the mystery of the stable door. I told Steve that the passage reminded me of him, that this was an adventure in which he himself was being forced toward the opening of the stable door, and yet something glorious and unforeseen lay on the other side. And I concluded by telling him how much I loved him, and appreciated his friendship.

On Sunday evening, November 22, I went out on the Sunday evening walk that had become a weekly routine for me. I would just go out on the roads around our house and talk to Jesus, to seek His direction on how to proceed in the storm of life that was surrounding me and the friend who was very dear to me.

After talking to Jay on Friday night, it was evident that something was going to happen before Thanksgiving. Steve was now quickly losing strength, and his emaciated body was beginning to shut down. Yet even in the face of "the wind and the waves" as Steve often referred to in his teachings, many of us refused to give in to the spirit of death that hovered over him. Just about every night during those last few weeks, I would go to our church in Walla Walla to sing and pray. I would go dejected and defeated, and within an hour would leave encouraged and rejoicing. I was truly finding my strength in the joy of the Lord. He was sustaining me, and He was clearly speaking words of encouragement. I clung to ever word, and turned aside from any sense of doubting.

In the twilight hours that night, as I walked down the road, I begin to petition the Lord for direction...for encouragement ...for any sign that He was listening. I walked on in silence for the longest time, just listening to my Lord. Finally, as I was about to turn back for home, I heard the words of the Lord clearer than I ever had before in my life: "Scott, you must go to be with Steve. Do not wait! You must go soon!" I was shocked, stunned, and reeling. "What? Lord, how much time do I have?" I responded in the growing darkness, "do I have grace to go to work tomorrow? I can't just leave my job. What am I supposed to do?" I was groping for an answer, but I sensed the Lord's response as this: "You have grace to work tomorrow. But do not hesitate! You must leave immediately after work. Go immediately after work!"

I continued on home, doubting my spiritual senses, wondering if the Holy Spirit had indeed spoken to me. It had almost seemed surreal; I couldn't believe it. Yet, when I got back home, I related the words to Brenda, who didn't hesitate to support this decision. Yes, we would have to scramble to get ready but we would leave the next day after work. We couldn't waste a moment's time!

That afternoon, as was one of my other routines during that time of crisis (and in other difficult times since), I walked the grounds of the Veterans Administration hospital near our factory, which took me on a half hour loop around the old hospital, historic residential buildings and huge oak trees. In deep travail, I asked the Lord what I was to do, what I was going to say...but there was silence. I was just supposed to go. What was I to do once I arrived in Cheney? I knew that Jay and Les had been staying with Steve until late in the night, rubbing his feet to give him comfort, and finally carrying him to bed. Was I going to be an intruder to this personal time of ministry? What was my role, and why was the Lord so insistent upon me going to be with him?

I called up Jay that afternoon, to tell him that I was coming. I explained that I didn't know my purpose, but he welcomed the opportunity. Jay and I had been good friends before this whole trial had begun, but it seemed that something was forged in us during the several calls and visits that we shared during Steve's crisis. Now, probably more than ever, he encouraged me to come, and just asked for me to prepare myself for Steve's deteriorating physical appearance.

Brenda had the kids and the car all packed up when she picked me up that evening, and we left town by 5 pm. The drive north went quickly, as we sang, prayed, and encouraged each other in the Lord. He was leading us in this adventure, and I kept asking Brenda what I was supposed to do. It had been three weeks since I'd seen Steve, and I hadn't spoken to him in a week. There was just so much mystery in this trip...

It got colder as we traveled north toward the Spokane area. Walla Walla had been cold, in the mid 30s, but as we moved farther north of Colfax, the road began to become slick, and the level of snow on the roadside began to increase. By the time we reached Cheney at 8 pm, I was driving very carefully to avoid sliding, and we headed immediately for the Christian Church in time for the nightly prayer meeting that we knew would be held.

Brenda led the girls inside as I locked the car and struggled up the icy stairway, still wearing my quite slick dress shoes. A surge went through me as I recalled the many hours that I had spent at the church just three weeks before, and I saw a few familiar faces as I headed into the church.

There are indeed times in our lives that are filed away in the "freeze frame" section of our minds, moments that we will always remember for a certain image or picture that remains fixed in our minds. Like an icon on a computer screen, all we have to do is click on that image, and the whole experience is vividly replayed again in our minds. Over the years, this file is both reduced and expanded, depending on the significance of the events that have become so etched in our memories.

As I walked through the doors of the church, I was immediately struck by the strange quietness that filled the sanctuary. I quickly looked for Brenda, who was talking to Judy Schroeder off to one side. I glanced to my left, and looked deep into the swollen, bloodshot eyes of a disconsolate Jay Martin. With a sense of resignation, Jay looked at me and quietly said, "He went to be with Jesus." Freeze frame...

I froze. "He went to be with Jesus..." It pounded in my mind. I felt weak...almost overcome, yet not discouraged. My dear friend of ten years had received "the ultimate healing" that he had spoken of in the last teaching he had given before we left for St. Maries. "Death is the ultimate healing," he had explained. "There is no more pain or sorrow once we are in the presence of the Lord." Now Steve Perry was gone; he had walked through the stable door as we had talked, and on the other side he had come face to face with his Lord.

Some of Steve's comments on death came flooding back to me. I remember when the son of one of his EWU professor friends was killed in a car wreck. Steve had lamented when the grief stricken father had consoled himself by telling Steve that "after all, we're just animals." Another time Steve had told me that sometimes, after being in the ministry for 15 years, he had thoughts that it would simply be a lot easier just to go deep into the jungle to minister to a savage tribe, even if the experience killed him in three years. I remember another time, when Steve and Teri visited us in St. Maries, when they told of the funeral of the young son of a close friend of theirs in Spokane. Even though the child hadn't been expected to live, it was a very painful process, and the death was a crushing blow to many close to the family. "And to top it all off," Steve added, "was that the graveside service was held in a downpour. I figured that if had to be bad, that it might as well be this way, and get it out of its system!"

Even as the shock began to grow in intensity, I met with Jay at the top of the stairwell in the back of the old church that night. "Jay, did we miss something? I really thought the Lord was going to heal him," I stammered. Jay looked back with a look of confidence and said, "You know Scott, so did I. So did I...." Rather than lying in a pile of shattered faith, we both encouraged each other to go on, and hang on to the lessons the Lord was teaching us. We were going to "set our faces like a flint", as Steve had so often taught about.

The whole scene in the Perry living room that night was like a dream. Teri, overcome with grief, was sitting in Steve's favorite rocker, surrounded by her close friends Elaina and Erin. I had a brief conversation with Pastor Joe against the living room wall, as he related to me what the last minutes of Steve's life were like. Joe had felt that he had been given the privilege of leading Steve right up to the very gates of heaven, and sensing a voice saying, "That's far enough; you cannot come any farther. Only Steve is allowed beyond this point."

Pastor Joe asked if I wanted to go into the bedroom to view what remained of Steve’s lifeless body. As I prepared to respond to this invitation, my mind suddenly flashed back to the last time that I had seen Steve, and the promise that “I will never see you in this condition again”. I could still see his eyes, and sense the emotions of that moment. Steve had always been the epitome of an active, joyous life. Why would I want to see him now? I thanked Joe for his thoughtfulness, but graciously declined his offer.

As I scanned the living room among the faces of grief and pain, one image will always stand out for me: the vibrant look in the face of Steve on the family picture in the corner of the living room. That face, which looked so youthful and alive, would never be seen by any of us this side of heaven. Never before had I had the privilege of knowing someone who had lived his life to the fullest, who sought both a closeness to Jesus and a quality of life with great enthusiasm, joy, and passion. It just didn't make any sense; but the words of Isaiah were true:

"For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways," declares the Lord. "As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts."

Brenda and I dropped by the house the next day, and were greeted by Pastor Joe at the house. The surreal scene from the night before seemed like months before as we set in the living room and attempted to carry on a casual conversation with Teri and Joe. Before Joe left, he shared something with us that I will never forget: “You know, in thinking about Steve, I have come up with a very obvious conclusion: Steve died without any regrets. I have been ministering to a family this week that lost their mother in a tragic accident, and there are so many regrets do deal with that I am challenged to minister to them. But I knew Steve, his life, and what he stood for, and there are simply no regrets.”

Throughout the remainder of the week following Steve’s death, the men of the church had arranged for various friends and family to stay with Teri and the kids. Brenda and I were asked to stay at the house on the Friday after Thanksgiving, which we had celebrated with Brenda’s parents in Spokane. It was an emotional day, as Teri was just starting to get a handle on the grief that had struck her life, and to consider what she could do for the kids. Many people came and went throughout the day, offering encouragement and condolences throughout. By the time the day neared an end, and darkness came, we were thoroughly exhausted.

Teri and the two of us had been cooped up in the house all day long, and she was feeling the strain of taking in so many visitors. Finally, she just matter-of-factly asked if I would like to go on a walk, just to get out of the house. It was refreshing just to feel that cold Cheney air on my face, and to stretch my legs.

For the next half an hour, Teri and I walked the snow-covered streets of Cheney. The streetlights brightly illuminated the freshly fallen snow. I didn’t really say much, trying to

let Teri share whatever she wanted to talk about. Finally, as we took made the final turn back to the Perry house, Teri suddenly stopped. There were a few seconds of awkward silence as I waited for Teri to say something. “Oh, Scott,” she said, “this is the kind of night that Steve loved. This was his town; he just loved this place. I just can’t believe he’s gone.”

The next morning, we all gathered at the Nazarene Church for a memorial service to honor our dear friend. It was a day that I never wanted to see, a service that I never wanted to attend. Was this how it was all supposed to end? I remember seeing Teri, sitting in the front row of the church with her children and accompanied by Noel Campbell, Steve and Teri's longtime friend. Teri had a somewhat isolated yet determined look on her face, a look that many of us tried to share. It all seemed so unthinkable, impossible, yet this moment was truly happening.

Steve Perry was gone, now home to be with the Lord. There was nothing that any of us could do to bring him back. He was in a place that he had often taught about, and had encouraged us in. Yet this gathering of friends, relatives, and acquaintances seemed so improbable.

I was the first of Steve's friends who had been asked to share our insights on his life. I considered it a privilege and an honor to be given the opportunity to share some personal accounts of his life. Ironically, the only dress clothes I had were the same ones I had worn to work that previous Monday; I hadn't come dressed for a memorial service. It didn't matter; I just wanted to share some light sides of my time with Steve.

Yet as I begin to share some of his famous one-liners and a few humorous accounts of Steve at EWU football games, a realization came to me that made my voice start to quiver and shake. It was true that I had shared so many great moments with Steve, and that he had been painfully pulled from our lives. Yet the meaning of the events of that week began to churn inside me, and the Lord dropped a realization in my spirit that was the first sign of comfort for me: "The one you knew so well is now with me." It was so true! Heaven had seemed so close over the past few days; it was deeply personal, and not like an imagined, far off land. One of my closest and dearest friends had gone to be with Jesus; someone who knew my thoughts and had shared so many memories with me, and whose personality had so impacted mine. Steve Perry was with Jesus! The very thought of it gave me a clearer picture of Jesus' mind on this whole episode.

The minutes all rushed by so fast, and soon the final song was sung, and the church began to empty. As people started to file out, I just stood there, and soaked in the whole scene. Our friends from our days in Cheney were all there, just beginning to recover from the shock of losing their pastor. It was going to be a difficult process. I wondered what the next month, the next year, the next decade would bring. I thought of Teri, Brooke, and Chris, and where they were going from here. What now?

And just as I turned to start to head for the fellowship room, a familiar tune began to play over the sound system. It was a song that I loved so well, and yet it cut deeply as the words reached my ears. I almost reeled, but could only drop my head as I heard them:

Thank you for giving to the Lord

I was a life that was changed

Thank you for giving to the Lord

I am so glad that you gave

In the middle of the song, Jay turned to greet me, and I fell sobbing into his arms. "This song so speaks of Steve," I explained through the tears, "yet I never wanted to hear this song! I never wanted to hear this song..."

Brenda and I with Brother Fleming and Steve at our wedding, June, 1985

It is now March 1995, as I put the finishing touches on this story that I began writing at my in-law's kitchen table on the morning after Steve's death. Filled with numbness and shock after a fitful night, I cut through my grief by jotting down my most humorous memories of Steve. Even now as I reread and edit my recollections, I am again filled with a richness of my memories of Steve. I remember him often, and the impact of his life is evident to me.

Brenda and I casually refer to Steve when around our friends or family. I guess one of the greatest freedoms that Steve left us with is that we refer to him in the present, as if he were still around. It is a testimony to Steve's life that his impact on those around him was so strong and meaningful, yet very ordinary and imperfect at the same time. He was such a refreshing change from the status quo that his memories can't help but live on in those he was close to.

Since his passing in November of 1992, Steve was ironically soon joined in death by two of his closest friends: his father, Bud, died suddenly in February of 1993, and Steve's pastor and mentor, Roy Hicks, was killed a year later while flying solo from Los Angeles to Eugene. It was amazing to all of us close to Steve and Teri to witness the timing of these events, which further serve as an example of the Lord's timing.

There were so many times in the months following Steve's death that Brenda and I found ourselves in wonderment, unable to comprehend that he was really gone. I pulled out just about every reminder of Steve that I could find: my old sermon notes from years gone by, our wedding tape, the Chronicles of Narnia stories, daily selections from C.S. Lewis; even listening to the tape of the Nutcracker reminded me of his love for the famous Christmas ballet.

Steve was the first minister that I ever had a close relationship with. Not only did we share our love for the Lord, but we also encouraged each and just enjoyed being around each other. What our relationship left me with was a sense that I can be a true friend with my spiritual leaders, and that I can learn to live with their shortcomings and day-to-day struggles. Being around Steve gave me a fresh, but realistic, viewpoint of the life of a pastor. Since coming to Walla Walla, I have been able to apply a lot of the foundations of my relationship with Steve to my interactions with Fred Palmer and Dave Jones, the pastors at Valley Church.

I am left with a large dose of the essence of what Steve was and stood for. I still possess many of his mannerisms and personality traits. He had such a strong impact on my life that I still tend to think and react a lot like he did. Steve left a large investment in my life, and I only hope that I can take his deposit, allow the Lord to let it grow, and in turn give it away to those in need around me. I know that Steve never would have intended anything less.

So much of Steve's ministry and lifestyle has been there to draw from whenever it has become necessary. When making a difficult decision or when facing a major crisis, Brenda and I are often reminded of something Steve would have said or done in the midst of the storm. Just last week, during a difficult time at church, I was reminded to "throw out four anchors and pray for daylight".

There are still times when I instinctively think about picking up the phone and calling him, especially when something significant happens in the sports world. This past New Year's Day, when the Oregon Ducks returned to the Rose Bowl for the first time since 1958, was a time that Steve would have probably called me five times in the middle of the game. After moving to Cheney, He still carried a soft spot in his heart for the Ducks, who were relegated to his third favorite college football team behind Eastern Washington and the Washington Huskies. And as far as the ribbing he used to give me about following my high school team...well, I followed them all the way to Kingbowl XIX last fall and enjoyed every minute of it!

In the weeks following Steve's death, I started having extremely vivid and lifelike dreams about him. These illusions were so stirring, and seemed so real, that at times I thought he was actually trying to communicate with me somehow.

But among all of the strange visions that came to me, there is one that stands out above all others, a dream that is still clear in my mind. Though I can't recall the particular setting, I just remember that I was going somewhere to meet Steve, and that the opportunity to see him had been arranged. I was fully aware that he had passed away, but that didn't alter my ability to meet him.

Finally, we came face to face. He had a look of wonderment in his eyes, and he just seemed thrilled at the opportunity to talk with me. "Oh Steve," I began, "it's so good to see you. How have you been?" Steve looked a little distant when he assured me that he was fine, but it was obvious that he really hadn't addressed the question.

I pressed on. I just had to know. "Tell me, Steve, what is heaven really like?" I pleaded. At first he paused, trying to collect his thoughts. He started to say something, but the words never came out. Then he started to cry, just like he had in his hospital room in January of 1992. Through tears of joy, and with a face full of radiance, all he could manage was a gentle whisper, "It's wonderful..." He then disappeared from my sight, and the dream was over.

And as He spoke He no longer looked to them like a lion, but the things that began to happen after that were so great and beautiful that I cannot write them. And for us this is the end of all the stories, and we can most truly say that they all lived happily ever after. But for them it was only the beginning of the real story. All their life in this world and all their adventures in Narnia had only been the cover and the title page: now at last they were beginning Chapter One of the Great Story, which no one on earth has read: which goes on for ever: in which every chapter is better than the one before.

---C.S. Lewis The Last Battle

Chapter 2 Of Saturdays, Sunshine, and Screaming.......................... 13

FINDING A FAMILY

Eastern Washington University football game at Albi Stadium, September, 1989

The Arrangement

The Most Famous of Lines

A Sad Closing...and One Regret

CHAPTER 3

A Game of Catch

Silver Lake Men's Retreat, September 1991

A Couple of Crazy Dodger Fans

Spokane, Washington