John had yet another gift which may have been his greatest contribution to our little band of creatives: Empathy and Wisdom.
In his work with hospice, John’s stories of the ways people depart this life were enlightening, touching, and full of wisdom. Those stories and John’s wisdom and empathy were elemental when I went through my own dramatic loss a few years into Mercyland.
The workshop went through some growing pains, and when I was ready to close it down, John was the person who said, “Keep going.” So did Jonathan, and it’s a good thing he did, because he met his wife Cindy Morgan at the workshop just a few years ago when we held it in Hot Springs, North Carolina.
When Jonathan and Cindy married in 2022, the wedding was in Hot Springs. Yours truly was the officiant. Besides a few family friends, many of the congregation were Mercylanders. Some of us sang, some partook in the ceremony, some prepped beforehand and cleaned afterwards, but John was there with his camera to document another Mercyland gathering.
John had health issues which led to a lung transplant about 7 years ago, I think. He was doing life with one borrowed, operative lung. We would meet at a restaurant near my home in Nashville for lunch fairly often, and he’d let me know his progress or difficulties, with no drama, no sense of “why me?”. We would talk about guitars (he wound up owning several of mine) and music and life, and the gift of love that had come to each of us: his Lisa and my Jenny.
John was supposed to attend the first Mercyland In Ireland, and then the second, but scheduling got in the way. Sammy Horner, my co-host in Ireland, and I were excited when John signed up for the 2025 workshop in Ireland. John’s best friend Stephan Gaus would be coming as well.
I always fly into Dublin a few days before the Irish workshop, because my clock needs a reset before diving into the arduous work of leading it. So, I was there with Sammy and Jonathan Richardson when we got the word that John’s health was bad enough that he and Stephan had to cancel on the day they were to fly to Ireland.
We texted back and forth, and he expressed his frustration: “I’m just pissed”. He knew he was facing death, but he was “just pissed” about missing the workshop.
On Day One of the Irish workshop, we FaceTimed with John and Stephan, who had gathered to write in solidarity with our meeting. I was glad and sad to see these good friends, and it choked me up a bit to know that they wanted to participate enough to work on a song together even if they couldn’t attend.
That was the last time I saw John.
A few days after I got home from Ireland, I played a gig in Alabama with Leigh Nash. Providing percussion was another Mercylander and friend of John’s- Steve Hindalong. RIght before we went on stage, a text showed up on my phone with a lyric about John, and it was in past tense. I didn’t read the rest of it; I didn’t want to get the news from someone who seemed like they wanted to be the first to tell the world, and I didn’t want to hear it on social media.
Honestly, I just didn’t want to hear it from anyone. I didn’t want that truth yet. I hoped he was still with us.
We played our show with Leigh, and I stepped outside to call Jonathan, who let me know that John had passed.
We had a show the next night, and while I might have delivered the goods musically, the cloud over my head was heavy. It was going to take a few days to sink in. Some well-meaning Mercylanders were posting tributes and memories, but I was resistant to join the fray. I texted Lisa that my public quietness about John’s passing was connected to the depth of my regard for him, and she replied that my quietness was “a balm” to her.
While I never sought to be the leader of a little community called Mercyland, I knew that everyone who had experienced John wanted to talk about it, tell a story, or hear from others about it. So, I sent a group email saying that one of our attendees had suggested a group donation to Faith Hospice, where John had been a true pioneer in the work of ushering the dying through the veil. That was a beautiful way that we could acknowledge our dear, wise, and wonderful brother John.
Many replied with stories, but I wasn’t ready to tell mine.
I still don’t feel eager to talk about it for fear that my own story will get in the way, but here I am.
Two weeks have passed since John went into the Beyond. My grief has been quiet. I’ve written a lyric, and maybe there’s something to it, but I haven’t gone back to it. At least silence doesn’t try to measure the depth of loss we feel. And hell, John was my very dear friend, but he wasn’t my husband, my father, my grandad, or my son. I know the loss I’m feeling is but a fraction of what his family is dealing with.
Early in the wee hours of Saturday, Jonathan and I will climb into my Ford Flex and trek up to Grand Rapids for the visitation, and the funeral on Sunday, and then the long night ride back after we say our goodbyes. It just occurred to me that I didn’t go to my own mother’s funeral; there were family complications that lured me into a different way of celebrating Mom’s life. No harm done.
I only tell you this to emphasize John’s value in my life. He’s worth the long haul in the short time we’ll afford ourselves to travel.
There’s one thing I’ll always remember about the first workshop John attended. Every story he told about the dying entailed a vignette about someone whose body was ready to go, but an unresolved relationship kept them alive, albeit barely. When the estranged child or ex-love would finally connect, in person or by phone, the departing person’s tears would fall, and peace would overcome them. And they could leave.
As much as John wanted to stay in this life, I’m comforted by the fact that (as far as I could tell) his mind didn’t need to keep his body here any longer than it was capable of being here. I’m assuming that there were no loose ends, no cleanups needed.
And I guess when someone leaves, because we’re all going to leave, if we’ve lived in peace, we will leave peace, too.
Thanks, John. You were a greater friend than I may have told you. - Phil Madeira 15 May 2025
