The King's Troubadour

If we’re fortunate, we can look back on our lives and name three or four people who, outside of our families, have profoundly affected us for the better. Gerald Vrazel was one of those people for me when I was younger. 

It was with real sadness that I learned of his death earlier this week.

I was only 15 or 16 when I met Gerald in the late 1970’s.  He was about ten years older, in his twenties, and played the guitar for prayer meetings in the St. Mary’s gym.  Because of my family’s involvement in the charismatic renewal, I had been to hundreds of prayer meetings before then, and often played the guitar, banging my way through songs and blissfully skipping chords that were too difficult or required transitions which were too quick. It didn’t seem to matter much, as everyone sang, loudly and joyfully. 

But Gerald was different—he was a truly excellent guitarist.  He hit chords (all of them!) with ease, transitioned seamlessly between strumming and picking, whatever was required by the song, added walk-downs, frills, base —all the white playing on an exceptional guitar, his Gibson Hummingbird. I was mesmerized!  Over the next few meetings, I didn’t do too much praying; rather, I watched how Gerald played a song, then went home afterwards and tried to mimic what he did. 

At some point he must have noticed my interest, because he invited me to play with him, and I was thrilled. Thrilled—as a 16 year old boy, mind you!— to be attending prayer meetings every week, because I got to play with Gerald. He, for his part, was patient and kind with me: when I missed something, he never called me out, never made me to feel inferior. Truth be told, I never doubted as a teenager whether a devout Christian man could also be “cool,” because I knew Gerald. Such was his impact on me. 

As I got to know him better, I learned that Gerald and his best friend, Allen Reimer, had started a small musical group called “Canticle,” which practiced once a week at Allen’s house on Houston Avenue. They had converted a garage behind the house into a sound studio and invested significant monies purchasing instruments and sound equipment. Back in those days, in addition to playing every Sunday at St. Mary’s ( something he did for 45 straight years, all the way up to the day before he died--just extraordinary!), the group cut two albums of original songs and toured locally,  giving concerts at churches, picnics, bazaars, and other venues. 

I wasn’t good enough to play with them early on, but Gerald invited me to practices, and I was able to help out as a  “roadie,” loading equipment and setting up. As I slowly improved, I began filling in from time to time on piano during practices, and eventually, began to play with them publicly. I was even able to record a few tracks with them on the second album, "Jesus Train." Sometimes I still tinker around on the piano with a few of the Canticle “classics,” including “Jesus Train,” “Jesus is Coming Again,” “Sing Praise to You Lord,” “Be Calm Be Still,” “Visions of You,” "We All Are One," and “Remember Me.” 

Though many people came and went through Canticle even during my short stint with them, the folks I remember were Gerald and Allen (guitarists and lead vocalists), Shelley, Gerald’s wife, Keith, (drummer), Brad (bass), Margie (piano), Carole (flute), Jane, Mary Beth, Cathy (singers) and a few others.  These were good people, and the friendships I developed with them in my last two years of high school, together with cameo appearances during my summers home from college, were a great gift to me growing up. 

Gerald, though, was special. He was the consistent, dominant personality, the glue that kept everyone focused on the purpose of Canticle—to give glory to God, and to call others to the Lord. I watched him carefully as I grew up. I noticed how he handled frustration without ever cursing (“FOOT!” was the worst he’d say), how he dealt charitably with a few priests who weren’t terribly excited about the Canticle “sound” at masses (with drums, tambourines  and electric guitars), how he patiently handled hurt feelings within the group, or how cheerfully he did the mundane stuff, like loading up sound equipment and unloading, week after week, year after year, over and over again. 

If heaven is a place of song, and I believe that it is, I’m pretty sure Gerald is already among the choirs of angels, guitar in hand, free of all pain, joyfully singing and praising God.  

Rest in peace, good friend. Thank you for your witness to me.