MOURNING THE LOSS OF A 'COKE DEALER'

Some might assume I'd be happy with news of the death of a drug
dealer.

After all, I regularly rail against the evils of their trade. I've
presided at enough funerals of their victims.

After all, I've pleaded with enough addicts to choose a different
path. I've witnessed the anguish of family, friends and co-workers of
the addict, feeling helpless to stem the supply or demand of the drug.

After all, I've been frustrated with the fact that busting the "little
guys" on our streets does little to bust the "bigger guys" up the food
chain and out in the suburbs.

But there was no pleasure, no rejoicing when I heard that Frank Nucci
was dead.

The headline in the newspaper grated on my consciousness - 'Peg coke
dealer found dead in Quebec.

The story chronicled his discovery as one victim of a double-homicide
in a burned-out truck on an isolated road north of Montreal. It also
chronicled his prior arrest for dealing cocaine, and the fact that he
recently skipped his sentencing hearing.

As I read the story, my only reaction was one of sadness.

The headline itself was difficult. No one could dispute its truth. I'm
sure he was more than just a "coke dealer" to those who loved him.

Some who knew Frank may not have liked the headline, but it is the way
he will be remembered by too many people who knew of him. The truth
always outlives the denials.

Here in the West End, I feel like I live a long way from Corydon, but
I had heard allegations of his exploits. I heard of street dealers who
were said to covet a connection with Frank. I even heard that he
bragged on the Corydon strip of being a "made man," a genuine, bona
fide mobster. I also heard rumours that the real bosses were tiring of
some of the nonsense on the streets.

Those were just the rumours. Frank's widely publicized arrest and
conviction for trafficking cocaine, however, lent more credence to the
rumours.

Without knowing him, I kept my distance, figuring a visit from a
concerned preacher wouldn't make much of a difference. I assumed there
were people who loved him enough to tell him the truth. If he wouldn't
listen to them, why would he listen to me?

The drug is not the only addictive substance, and it's not the deepest
problem. The drugs delude the addicts, but the profits delude the dealers.

I've heard the rationalizations of the bosses. "Somebody's gonna do it
anyway. It might as well be a nice guy like me. I take good care of my
family and friends. I even give back to the community."

But God is not mocked by their skewed accounting of
reality.

What if it's true that we all face a judgment day? A day without legal
mis-representation and judicial impotence. The judge on that day will
not be intimidated by rumours and threats. He won't be impressed with
the rationalizations. He couldn't care less if a Nucci wore Gucci
every day on earth, or if thousands were given to the church. All the
things that impress folk here will pale in comparison to the view from
eternity.

Forty, 70, or even 100 years is less than a pittance compared with
forever. A quick "Hail Mary" on the brink of eternity won't replace an
earlier "Hell no! I'm done with that stuff!" here on earth.

When real-life repentance trumps rationalization, then forgiveness
trumps condemnation.

I don't really care if I'm accused of trying to proselytize or
evangelize. That's because, for me, it's also not enough to stigmatize
or chastise the dealers. I'll straight-up reject their lies and
alibis. But I won't stop praying for them to decide it's time to quit.

And, while they can't undo the past, they can prepare for a brighter
future.

Some have asked why I go so hard after these guys.

It's not just the reality of the streets that spurs my perspective.
It's not just the memory of my own OD during a particularly dark and
rebellious time in my younger days. It's my belief about the value of
life which spurs me to fight things in this life which threaten life
in the next.

That way, people will not only say nicer things at your funeral or in
the paper, but they'll take even more comfort that they're actually
telling the whole truth.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not advocating sentimental pity or naive
empathy for dealers.

But seeing the story of Frank's demise reminded me that we must never
celebrate the death of even one who's labelled as a "bad guy."

Mourn the loss of what might have been.

Mourn the loss of loved ones who had different dreams for Frank as a
young baby in their arms.

Mourn for those true family and friends who spoke the truth and were
rejected - along with their care. Mourn for those who kept an unholy
silence while fully aware of what was going on.

Mourn for the the grim reality that there are too many waiting to step
into Frank's shoes, not realizing they're more likely to step into his
coffin.

Mourn for those who spend more time getting mad that someone told the
truth than seeing the need to change their own reality.

And find a way, in the midst of mourning, to hold on to hope for
change.

The truth always outlives our defences and denials.

So if you're reading this and wondering if it's still possible to
change the ending of your own story, I hope you'll find courage to
talk to someone who will treat you as more than a "bad guy."

If the truth isn't good, you can still make it better.