Randy was a character—a lawyer, but the kind of lawyer who helped people and never seemed to get any richer from doing it. He was broad-shouldered and quirky; a man with simple tastes, who always wore a blue denim jacket and a floppy-brimmed hat to keep off the Portland drizzle, and walked with a slight lean to the left. I met him a few months before my divorce, and he looked over my papers for free because I was just north of broke at the time, and he wasn’t about to let anyone take advantage of me.

Randy was one of the first people I ever sang for, and quickly became one of the loudest voices in convincing me to branch out from my classical roots to explore songwriting. In fact, my band’s first show was an impromptu set that he shanghaied us into playing at one of his parties on his boathouse. I'd never sung anything so personal and was flying high for days from the release. He was there in the corner, grinning mischievously behind one of his many video cameras. We were an eclectic gathering that night, with little in common, save that he had claimed us all as friends, and we had claimed him as well.

A few weeks after the open house, I got a call from our mutual friend. I was at work, and she asked me to sit down because she had something difficult to tell me. Randy had been found that morning on the kitchen floor. It was a heart attack. Sudden. No suffering or pain. I hung up and stared at the wall, stunned, thinking about the last time I’d seen him. It was at Sherry’s restaurant. We had been there with friends, and I’d been telling him about an upcoming show I was going to play, and he’d told me he would be there, that he was proud of me, and that I had to keep singing no matter what happened in my life. We waved goodbyes in the parking lot, neither knowing we’d run out of time.

His funeral was a few days later, and I sat with his little clan from the party, taking up a whole section of hard-backed pews. We watched a slideshow projected over the pulpit with pictures from his life—him playing Santa Claus in his quirky homemade films, then summer scenes of him wearing large flower-shaped sunglasses and being dog-piled by grandchildren, then a series of him painting a nearly-nude model in zebra stripes from head to toe as part of the Body Art movement which was trending in Portland at the time. It caused tittering through the audience, and the bishop coughed nervously and averted his eyes with a blush. I grinned and felt sure that Randy was enjoying the stir he was causing...wherever he was.

There was an open share in the reception after, in a room with low-suspended ceilings and flickering lights. Many stories were shared, some told through choked tears, some causing so much laughter that it almost felt like he hadn’t left at all. He’d lived a remarkable life and was the first to tell you what a dysfunctional man he’d been in his younger years. Randy's childhood had been dark, marred by abuse and neglect that had led him to alcoholism, battles with anger, isolation, a handful of divorces, and many demons he’d fought for decades before overcoming and becoming the beacon of love and kindness that he was to his friends in his final decades. He was a remarkable, imperfect, glorious mess—this man who had compelled me to sing and who had saved so many people from self-destructing.

My feet brought me to the microphone before I knew what I would say, so I spoke to the room from my heart and told them how impactful Randy’s friendship had been to me. There was one last song I wanted to sing for Randy before I let him go. It was a song I hadn’t been able to get out of my head since he passed. I closed my eyes and pictured him there at the table before me:

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see…
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to free
You were only waiting for this moment to be free.

When I finished, I felt his peace and happiness still radiating. He was free, and despite all the many obstacles of his life, he had finished his journey well, with joy and love. We mingled an hour or so longer, enjoying his presence there until it was time to go, and we were ready to continue the work of healing ourselves and the world like Randy would have wanted.

And somehow knew I would always feel him there when I sang.