After a man hits a breaking point, profound and dark as it may be, he still needs to go on to the next thing. But as Gary drove away from school, he had no idea where to go. He was concentrating on building walls, on shutting down. Even so, common sense told him he needed respite, a place where he could catch his breath and figure out life beyond SUNY Brockport. He vowed he’d never go back there.
Gary thought about going to Steve’s place again; he’d always been a good friend. But Gary sensed he shouldn’t lay this on Steve. In fact, Steve’s life was becoming so different that maybe he wouldn’t even be able to help. Steve had tried to forget Vietnam by immersing himself in a normal life. He was working a nine-to-five job and was married, and Gary didn’t want to burden Steve with his problems.
He considered driving up to Montreal. But Audrey and Margie and many of his Canadian friends had graduated and gotten jobs by now. They were settling into new lives, and the magic of the compassionate presence in their apartment was gone.
Gary considered driving to California to see Steve’s friend Linda, who had moved there recently and always seemed like a mother full of wisdom and kindness. Maybe he could try California. It seemed like the best way forward, although he doubted his old Chevy van could make it across the country.
He’d heard that students could scan the personal ads in Boston and find people traveling to different locations who wanted to share a ride—maybe he could get to California that way. He drove to the city, changed into civilian clothes in the back of his van, and headed into Boston Common. As usual the park was filled with young people, some sitting in groups and smoking, some studying, some walking hand in hand.
A web of haziness hung over the park. Gary’s mind felt muddled. He was constantly trailed by loneliness, anger, hurt—and now he was hungry. A group of young adults sat in a circle, singing, holding hands while one played guitar. Their hair was long, and they wore beads and simple clothing, and as Gary stopped and listened, they seemed so happy. One of the guys walked over and invited Gary to join them. The guy explained that they were part of a larger group called the Children of God and that a prophet named Moses David had sent them from Huntington Beach to Boston. He invited Gary to stay with them for a couple of days, and Gary shrugged and said, “Sure. Why not?”
Gary spent a day with the group. They fed him and cared for him. The girls gave him hugs, and the guys seemed sincere in their acceptance. Group members talked a lot about a coming apocalypse, which they predicted would occur in 1993. Meanwhile, life consisted of revolution and fulfilling sexual desires and being into “free love,” although they didn’t trust the rest of the world, which they called “the system.”
A strange imperative overtook Gary, and he thought, Forget the free food. Forget the group. He left and returned to the common to pick up a newspaper so he could get back on track for California.
Haziness still hung over the park. There he met another group of young adults who were talking to anyone who’d listen. They belonged to a church started by a sci-fi novelist named L. Ron Hubbard. They told him about a technique called Dianetics, which they promised could help erase memories from Gary’s subconscious and give him a more satisfying life. They invited him to their spiritual guidance center to go through an initial process called auditing. Curious about anything that promised help, Gary went and proceeded with the audit. After twenty minutes he walked out, figuring that whatever pap they were selling wasn’t what he was looking for.
Gary stayed at the park for several days, sleeping in his van, doing a lot of hard thinking. Nightmares plagued him. Flashbacks happened regularly throughout the day. Almost anything could trigger the memories—the smell of gasoline or diesel, a particular song, the sound of a helicopter hovering over the city.
His interaction with the two religious groups caused him to think more about God. He didn’t know all the specifics of the groups, but he sensed they were wandering from truth. His mind kept returning to his experience in the hospital bed when he had prayed with the chaplain. Gary’s encounter with God then had felt honest and rational and left him feeling peaceful and supported. That same sort of experience was what he wanted to pursue now, if more of it could be found.
He decided not to go to California after all. He wanted to know more about this God he’d encountered within the prayer, even after barricading himself within walls as he’d vowed to do, and although Gary didn’t know exactly how to continue his search, he slowly concluded the answer didn’t lie in running away.
One afternoon while sitting under a tree in the common, wrestling with his confusion, he remembered that his cousin Jan and her family had recently moved to Marshfield, Massachusetts, about thirty miles from Boston. Jan was the one who’d knelt beside her bed as a young girl and begged God to spare Gary’s life when he fell out of the window as a toddler. She and her husband, Buck, were the ones who’d driven cross-country to see Gary before he left for Vietnam. Their visit had always meant a lot to him.
His first inclination was to forget about them, to push them away, just as he pushed away everybody else. But he decided to take his chances and was soon heading for Marshfield. He found their address in a phone book and decided just to drive by and take a look.
Jan and Buck lived in a small renovated Cape Cod farmhouse on five acres. Well, since I’m here, why not drop in? he thought. As Gary drove up the gravel drive, he felt a strange mix of emotions. He knew he was showing up unannounced, carrying with him a world of hurt. Maybe his plan was foolish. He hadn’t seen them in almost three years. Maybe he should just turn around. But two ponies beckoned from a corral by the barn, and a number of dogs surged around his van, yipping and smiling and sniffing as he pulled to a stop. Maybe he’d step in for a few moments to say hi.
Their property was not the sort of manicured farm that might be pictured on a New England postcard but rather a working collection of outbuildings and kids’ bicycles and animals and vegetable plots. Around the property’s perimeter lay a circular track with mounds of dirt built up like ramps—Gary later found out it was a track where Jan and Buck’s older son could ride his dirt bike. Jan would later describe the farm as a “flea market,” and Buck would say to her quietly, “Jan, we are raising children…not a pretty yard.” And they were raising children indeed—three girls and two boys.
When Jan opened the front door and saw Gary standing on the stoop, she laid a hand over her heart and burst into tears. She pulled Gary close in a warm embrace. Gary’s instinct was to pull back, but her actions were so genuine that he let himself be held. Buck wasn’t far behind, and he clapped Gary on the shoulders and said “Welcome!” Jan laughed and hugged Gary again, and when she released her embrace and looked at him more closely, she said, “Gary, your presence at our farm is no coincidence.”
They talked for a while, and their conversation was full of laughter and warmth. They had heard bits and pieces from relatives about Gary’s story since his return from Vietnam, but they were looking forward to learning about what was happening with him now.
Buck asked Gary how long he could stay. Gary shrugged. Since Gary had no real plans beyond the moment, Buck invited him to stay for a few weeks. Gary could sleep in a trailer on the property, work with Buck during the day, and help take care of things around the farm. Gary didn’t have to think—he accepted the offer.
Quickly, Gary settled into living with Jan and Buck. What amazed him most was the respect and consideration evident within the family. Meals began with a simple prayer, then food was passed, then Buck and Jan listened as each child shared things that had happened throughout the day. The kids knew their parents were sincerely interested, and the children freely shared jokes, thoughts, and dreams.
Each meal was straight from the farm or surrounding areas—salads of tomatoes and fresh spinach, cucumbers and squash. Potatoes dug from the garden. Plenty of roast chicken, local milk, and free-range beef. Delicious and comforting.
After each meal, with the dishes washed and put away, the kids would dash away to play games or do chores or finish their homework, and Buck and Jan would linger and talk with Gary over jasmine tea.
Jan told Gary that his showing up was an answer to years of prayer. Ever since he was a toddler and had fallen out of the window, she had prayed for him. She had prayed for him while he was growing up. She’d prayed for him as his mother and stepfather moved from house to house. She’d prayed for him when he joined the army, when he was in Vietnam, and when he was wounded and recuperating in the hospital. Lately she had been praying for Gary more than ever, although she couldn’t explain exactly why. She simply felt compelled.
Gary was intrigued to learn more about this unique family.
He came to appreciate Buck as a genuine Renaissance man. He had his master’s degree in education and had worked as an administrator and teacher but become restless in his career. He’d traveled to Brazil and helped set up a school; then he’d run his own business for a season and succeeded, but now he liked being free to organize his day without a clock. In addition to the work around the farm, he collected items to sell at flea markets. He liked to talk with the people he met there about philosophy and literature and God—and when he wasn’t out collecting items or restoring them, he remodeled bathrooms, cleaned up basements or attics, or dismantled old buildings marked for demolition and salvaged whatever he could find. Each day was different for Buck—and he liked life that way.
Working with Buck meant Gary started each morning by driving with him to the nearby pancake house. Jan worked as a nurse and would often join Buck and Gary for breakfast before heading to the hospital. They talked about what Gary’s life had been like in the army and with the Montagnards in Dak Seang. They asked about his studies, why he’d wanted to attend med school, and what had prompted him to leave the university. Their questions were deep, and often Gary could not give full answers. He was still searching for the answers himself.
After breakfast, Gary and Buck headed to whatever job Buck had lined up for the day. They’d drive over to the site, work for a few hours, then stop work and take what Buck called a “word break.” It was like a coffee break, although Buck would pull out a book and read for fifteen minutes. He encouraged Gary to do the same.
Gary hadn’t brought any books with him to the farm other than the medical textbooks he’d tossed into the back of his van, but while cleaning out an attic, he’d found two books that caught his attention. One, the complete works of Emerson, and the other, a work of Thoreau. He brought Thoreau to work the next day to read during their break.
After a few days, Buck asked Gary what he was learning from Thoreau. Gary had come to know Buck as a subtle intellectual, very deep, who wasn’t intimidated by anything. He reminded Gary of Socrates, a wise guru who taught through dialogue. The more students talked, the more students learned.
Gary described to Buck how Thoreau had written, “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation,” and what that warning meant to him personally. He admitted he was leading a life of desperation, although his mind and heart weren’t exactly quiet.
Buck asked him what he thought the solution to the desperation might be, and Gary said he had no idea.
They talked about philosophy, about what the purpose of life was, and about how so many people are searching for insights into life. Buck’s demeanor fostered openness. Gary was impressed that Buck was patient during these conversations, a genuine listener and thinker. He was years down the road from Gary in terms of insight into life, but he never spoon-fed Gary any answers. Buck seemed interested only in readiness, and Gary wasn’t sure he knew how to offer that. But he sensed that Buck knew that if there was no readiness, if Gary’s trace of receptivity disappeared, then anything Buck might say would not help Gary find his way to solutions.
One afternoon Gary and Buck were working at an old armory, taking apart containers to resell the wood. They stopped for a word break and sat side by side on a wooden coffin that had stored artillery shells.
When they finished reading, Buck spoke first. “Gary, do you consider me a friend?”
“You’re the closest thing I’ve had to a friend in a long time.”
Buck handed Gary a paperback. “Do me a favor, then.” He paused and pointed to the book. “Read this. Let me know what you think.”
Gary shrugged without looking at the book’s title and said, “Sure. Be glad to.”
That night, Gary started reading the paperback. It described a man who lived a disruptive, extravagant, and even playful life. He reminded Gary of the Green Berets he knew. The man wasn’t afraid to toss over tables and clear a room. He gave funny nicknames to his friends.
Once, he showed up for a dinner party at the home of a fastidious law-keeper and immediately insulted the host. Gary found himself amused, then shocked, then intrigued.
After reading for a few days, Gary was also puzzled. They were back at the armory, and he asked Buck, “What kind of book is this anyway?”
Buck shrugged and said, “Just keep reading, Gary. Keep reading.”
That night after work and supper, Gary was in the camping trailer where he stayed and found he couldn’t rest. Usually he read until he felt sleepy, but that night he felt wide awake. He started reading again and found he couldn’t put the book down. In his mind he heard Buck’s voice. “Just keep reading, Gary. Keep reading.”
As Gary read, a powerful experience filled his heart and mind. He dialogued with the words of the book—reading a section, stopping, then discussing the section out loud—the way a musician and an audience feed off one another in a performance. The method seemed Socratic to Gary, the best way of getting to the heart of the material.
Gary read, “Do not let your hearts be troubled.”
“Am I troubled?” Gary asked into the air. “Yeah. I’ve had way too much trouble in this life already.”
“You believe in God,” continued the protagonist of the story.
“Yeah. I’m pretty sure I met him at the Seventy-First Evac Hospital in Pleiku.”
“Believe also in me.”
“Well, I want to. But how? And where exactly are you?”
Then he read how a friend of this man asked him, “We don’t know where you are going, so how can we know the way?”
“Your followers sometimes felt confused too?” Gary said. “Man, tell me about it. Did they ever figure out who you were or where you were going?”
“Jesus answered, ‘I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.’ ”
“Wow, that’s a bold statement. What kind of man would ever make such a claim? If the man wasn’t a liar, he had to be crazy. Or maybe there was another option. Maybe he was telling the truth.” Gary finished the chapter and continued reading the next.
“Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.”
“Have you ever experienced this greater kind of love?” Gary asked himself. “Sure, that’s what happened in Dak Seang when Deo laid down his life for me. One man gave his life so another could live.”
“You are my friend.”
“Me? Gary Beikirch? A friend of God’s?”
“You did not choose me, but I chose you.”
Gary stood up, stared at the paperback, and answered in a rant: “Why would God choose me as a friend? Don’t you know—you, God—what I’ve seen? I’m not the easiest person to be around. I hold people at arm’s length. I push people away. I’ve done drugs, fought with the law, and walked on the edge of destruction. War is a terrible thing, and those who go to war sometimes have to do terrible things. Sure, I killed people…I killed too many to forget. And now I’m tormented by memories I can’t get out of my mind. Who would ever want to be friends with me?”
As an answer, the last few words he’d read lodged in Gary’s mind and repeated themselves:
I. Chose. You.
Those words from God struck Gary with power. They became his turning point. The receptive insight grew strong in Gary’s heart, and the same presence that had filled the hospital room in Pleiku filled the trailer in Marshfield.
At 3:00 a.m. on July 2, 1972, Gary set the book on his bed. He knelt on the cold tile floor of the trailer and bowed his head for the second time in his life. He prayed that he would find comfort for the pain and memories that tormented his thoughts. He prayed to be given peace for the rage he knew he couldn’t control. He prayed to be forgiven for all the wrongs he had done. And he prayed that God would restore him and make him new.
Fifty years later, Gary describes the experience this way:
As I was reading through the book of John in the trailer, it felt like the ethereal took shape and took on a form I could identify with. God became a person. I couldn’t describe the person fully yet, but I knew that God was not an abstract idea to me anymore. God became a person in the form of Jesus Christ, and that person was now my friend who had laid down his life, dying on a cross for me. He had extended the greater love so that I might truly live.
The date was marked. From that moment forward, Gary sensed that something had changed within him. The old ways of living were gone. The new had come. In those early-morning hours, when he finally closed his eyes, he slept in peace.
But Gary’s problems weren’t behind him completely. Life’s poisonous residues often seep away slowly. Gary might have had a genuine conversion experience in the trailer, yet ahead of him still lay a vast wilderness—one of the coldest, most isolated experiences he’d ever encounter.