CHAPTER 9

After the doors slammed shut on the record deal with Arista, Keith launched out in a whole new direction. He still didn’t know if he was really ready for the church. Or, for that matter, if they were ready for him—and the unorthodox way he looked. He didn’t even own a suit or a tie. But Keith figured they’d have to take him like he was.

Since “Victor” wasn’t really cut out for the road, we bought another vehicle we tagged the “The Pregnant Blue Guppy”. It was an old blue van, and the previous owner had extended the back about four feet. The extension kind of bubbled out, which gave it the pregnant-fish look. It had a big bed in back and bucket seats in the front. Now we were ready to go on the road—only we weren’t sure where!

Since neither of us had a church background, we had no idea where to go. Other musicians told us which churches did concerts and helped us get going. Chuck Girard, the lead singer of the group, Love Song, gave Keith a jump-start. Love Song often had to turn down invitations because they had so many requests. Whenever that happened, Chuck recommended Keith to that church—so we got all their overflow, which was a big help.

By the spring of 1976, Keith was ready to go out on the road, doing church concerts up and down the west coast. He had a lot of different kinds of songs—serious, funny, inspiring. We were about to find out what being in a public music ministry was all about.

One night, Keith did a concert in a church that probably held a few hundred people. At the end, the pastor stood and encouraged everyone to give generously, because it was all going to be given to Keith. “Let’s bless him back for the great time of ministry!” About half-an-hour later, we wandered out to the “Blue Guppy” and opened up the envelope we’d been given. We were stunned by the amount inside. We obviously hadn’t received all that was given. Keith didn’t know what to do.

At first Keith said, “I’ll just let it go. I’m not going to make a big deal out of this.” But after a few minutes, he realized he couldn’t drive off without talking to the pastor. It wasn't just the money—it was the principle. Keith felt he should be given the whole offering because that’s what people were told. Everyone gave with that in mind.

When Keith told me he was going to go back in and talk to the pastor, I nearly died. I probably wouldn’t have gone, because I’d be afraid to look like I was just being greedy. But Keith was determined.

“We always take all of our expenses out of the offering,” the pastor said, in reply to Keith’s inquiry.

“Then you should have told everyone that was going to happen when you took the offering. Then it would have been fine.”

“Well, no one’s complained before. . . .”

Keith stood firm. “I just don’t think it’s right. Everyone was told the offering was going to be given to me, and that’s who they thought they were giving to.”

I could tell he felt awkward, knowing he was probably being misunderstood. “I’m not trying to be greedy—but I feel the givers were misled, whether it was intentional or not,” he concluded.

I don’t remember if Keith was given the rest of the offering, but he did what he felt was right. That was the most important thing to him.

Our real concern about finances was centered in the fact that we had more and more people floating through our home. A woman in her forties, who was extremely depressed and suicidal, moved in for a few months. Another guy who was on and off heroin stayed with us, along with his wife and two little kids. He robbed us, then showed up at our next prayer meeting to pray for “the robber”. Later, his wife told on him and we forgave him. Then there was the young, Spanish girl who was kicking an addiction to Seconal—or downers. And then a friend of ours met a girl in Beverly Hills who was selling roses for the Moonies, a cult run by Sun Myung Moon. Our friend phoned us immediately.

“Hey you guys. There’s a girl with me who wants to get out of this cult and find Jesus. She’s just traveling through from out-of-state. I don’t know what to do with her. Can I bring her over?”

The answer was, “Of course!”

Everywhere we turned there were desperate or wounded people who needed help. While Keith was wrestling with the question of what it was the Lord wanted him to actually say to the church, we’d been having “message-shaping” experiences. Some were pretty vivid. The nude-bathing incident was definitely one of them. And so was our experience with a young woman who went by the name Mistiana.

Keith and I had flown up to Seattle. There were a lot of people up there who were already into his music because of all the clubs he’d played in every time he ran away from home. He capitalized on his popularity by doing a concert at Everett College, preaching a strong evangelistic message to the unsuspecting students. We also went up to Bellingham, where Keith did a concert at his old, Washington State hang-out—a place called Mama Sunday’s. But this time instead of playing songs about searching—he sang and talked about what he had found.

It was during this trip that we met Mistiana. You couldn’t miss her when she walked in a room. At first glance, she looked like a gypsy, with her long-flowing skirt and black velvet jacket. Her dark flashing eyes, framed on each side by her long-feathered earrings, caught our attention with interest. We talked to her for a long time, and found out she was going to be driving home to San Francisco. We wanted more time with her and asked if we could ride along as far as Portland. She agreed to take us.

The next day, during our drive, Mistiana told us she was into witchcraft. Actually, she was a bonafide, spell-casting witch. Keith began talking so hard and fast about God that she became angry, feeling like she was a captive in her own car. But before we pulled into Portland, Keith was leading her in a prayer to receive the Lord.

We wound up riding all the way back to California with Mistiana, and before long we’d talked her into coming home with us rather than returning to San Francisco right away. We knew she was weak and probably wouldn’t make it as a Christian if she went home alone. For hours in the car, we kept talking to her about our past involvement in the occult and drugs and all the wonderful ways God had set us free. Even though she’d prayed to accept Christ, something about her still seemed kind of strange.

Immediately when we got back home, Keith grabbed a book off our shelf. It was called Jesus Is Coming Soon, and it talked about the end-times when Jesus would return—but he wasn’t going to return for everyone. The book said anyone involved in idolatry, fornication or witchcraft, to name a few, would be swept away in the Day of Judgment.

As Keith read from this book and quoted from the Bible, Mistiana’s dark eyes got bigger and bigger. Suddenly, she put up her hands and said, “That’s enough. I have some things I want to get rid of—right now.”

Keith closed the book. “Sure! Let’s do it. What do you want to get rid of?”

“Well I’ve got my astrology chart, some tarot cards, and some books. They’re in my trunk. I’ll get them—but what should we do with them?”

Keith thought for a moment, and then his eyes lit up like they always did when he had a good idea. “Let’s burn them!”

Mistiana grabbed all her occult trappings, and we piled them in our driveway. As Keith set them on fire, we rejoiced at the goodness of God and at Mistiana’s obedience. I don’t know if our suburban neighbors driving by on Doloronosa Street were rejoicing or not—but they were at least getting used to seeing strange happenings at our house.

In a couple of months, however, Mistiana moved to another small Christian community led by a very special pastor named Reverend Glenn. He pastored the Topanga Canyon Community Church up in the mountains. It was real “hippieville” up there, and Reverend Glenn had a heart that was open to people many other Christians ignored. It was a sacrificial, bare-bones kind of ministry. Reverend Glenn lived with his wife and kids in this old beat-up church. He hardly owned anything, but they kept their doors open day and night. Often, there were kids sleeping in the pews because they had no place else to go, and no one else who cared.

So Mistiana moved up to Topanga and, not too long after, got engaged to a guy she led in the sinner’s prayer in a bar. He was an alcoholic and untested in his Christian commitment. It didn’t seem like either one of them was ready to get married. Keith tried to talk Mistiana out of marrying him. When that didn’t work, he went to Reverend Glenn, who was going to do the ceremony.

“Please, don’t marry them,” Keith begged. “They’re both new Christians. They barely know each other. I’m telling you this guy is not committed. Counsel them against it. Please tell them to wait.”

But for whatever reasons, Reverend Glenn decided to marry them. We went to the wedding because we loved them. Keith hoped his hunch was wrong, and that they’d live “happily ever after”. And we still loved Reverend Glenn, too—even though we were afraid he might have missed it on this one. Only time would really tell.

And we wondered if there was anything we could have said to Mistiana that would have prepared her to make wiser decisions. We didn’t know. But more than ever, the experience underscored our question: Why didn’t leading someone in “the sinner’s prayer” revolutionize their life right away?

Our house was continually swelling with people. Cindy no longer had an outside job. Keith and I told her we’d take care of her and Kelly if she wanted to stay home to help us cook and run the household, which was a full-time job now. With so many people in and out I didn’t know what our neighbors thought—especially if we were going to have bonfires in our driveway! But it looked like they were going to have to get used to us, because we decided to buy our house.

Now the question of what to charge for a concert was becoming more of a pressing issue. We tried several different ways. Sometimes a church wanted to take a “love offering” for Keith. And sometimes they wanted Keith to tell them how much he’d charge to come. In these instances Keith set a small fee for going. One night, he asked for about $50, but later on he really struggled. He knew other less-accomplished music ministers got a lot more. He was trying to figure out if he should start asking for $75 or even $100 a night. At least then he’d know what he’d be getting and didn’t have to worry about scanty offerings. However, an offering gave the Lord a chance to bless you where a set fee did not. More than that, Keith was trying to figure out where all the boundaries were. Did you not go minister somewhere because they couldn’t pay you enough? And how much was enough?

In some ways, the Christian music ministry was beginning to appear similar to the secular music business we’d just stepped out of—record companies, contracts, concert tours—we were even beginning to see that there was a pecking-order of artist popularity. But in other ways it was a whole new animal. And when you were invited somewhere, what should you expect to receive in return? Some churches were obviously wealthy, others were poor. How do you deal with the differences? Maybe asking for a minimum amount would settle the issue.

“And yet,” Keith said, “I can’t imagine Paul telling the Corinthian church, ‘Sorry guys, I can’t come unless you promise me 5,000 sheckels and two first-class chariot fares!”’

But the money issue was not going to immobilize Keith from delivering the things in his heart. The work seemed so urgent. In June of 1976, Keith did a concert in Ashland, Oregon. What he told the audience impressed me because I saw how much Keith was changing.

“It’s getting darker outside” he said, during one of his piano rambles.

“Twenty years ago you couldn’t tell the difference between a Christian and a moral heathen. There were a lot of . . . upstanding people and they had high moral codes . . . . But today if’you don’t live with someone before you get married, you’re considered stupid by the world. . . .

“In L.A. right now on the streets there are rows, and rows, and rows of pornographic newspapers. For fifty cents—right at the eye level of little kids. There’s women lying with women right on the front covers. Men lying with men. It’s Sodom and Gomorrah time!

“Jesus said, ‘It shall be in the last days as it was with Sodom and Gomorrah.’The only sin listed [for Sodom and Gomorrah] was homosexual gang rape. . . . Two months ago, there were two crimes never before recorded in the history of Los Angeles crime—two homosexual gang rapes. . . . We’re at the doors. The Lord is returning soon.”

While Keith felt so strongly about the sin of homosexuality, he really felt compassion for the person caught in that lifestyle. In fact, one day after a concert at a church, we wound up talking to a young guy from the church. It became obvious that he was struggling with some things and, within a few minutes, he was confessing to us. Even though he was active in the church, he was a practicing homosexual. Far from being turned off, Keith reached out to him with an offer of help.

When it seemed like this young man was open to getting help, Keith went to the nearest phone and called our friends at Jesus People USA in Chicago to see if they would take him in. We knew they’d had success in helping others in the same situation. As Keith continued talking to this guy, all I could see in his eyes was an overwhelming desire to see this young man set free.

Early in 1977, Keith was offered a record deal by Billy Ray Hearn of Sparrow Records. Sometime after the “Firewind” session, where they first met, Billy Ray took Keith up on his offer to come see him in one of the many church concerts he was doing. Keith was playing at the Vineyard, and Billy Ray slipped in unannounced. He had been shocked to find the place packed out, and even had to crawl over people just to find a place on the floor in an aisle. It was not protocol for record company presidents, but he stayed to see what it was about Keith that had drawn so many people.

It was a powerful night of music and ministry. Billy Ray was more than mildly interested, and that kicked off a long process of conversations and negotiations with Keith and his father over the proposed contract. Keith asked Todd to play bass on the album, but who would produce it? Earlier Keith had asked Buck Herring to produce him, but Buck figured that he and Keith were both too intense to try working together. Instead, a young man named Bill Maxwell was suggested.

Bill Maxwell was a hot drummer and an excellent producer. He’d co-produced with Andrae Crouch on his albums for a while, and he was a committed Christian. When Bill came over to our house to meet us, we were taken with his warm, open manner. He looked like he was in his late twenties, with light brown shoulder length hair and southern tones in his voice. He was decidedly unassuming for someone who came so highly recommended.

Keith played Bill all of his demos—and then played some songs on the piano for him. Bill’s response was very direct. “You sound so much better in person than you do on your demos. You’ve got so much more energy and style when you play and sing at the same time. That’s what needs to come across in the recording,” Bill said.

Keith and I had also noticed that before—but how did you capture Keith’s energy and style on tape? More importantly, how did you capture the unusual sense of what God was doing inside Keith himself as he sang? Could it be done?

Keith and I were learning the value of prayer, and so at Keith’s concerts he began asking people to pray for the album project. “I really need your prayers more than anything,” he’d say, “because I’ve pretty much got the songs picked out, and the producer, and some of the musicians. But in the studio, a spiritual song can sometimes lose its anointing. I want the Holy Spirit to come through. I want to make sure the Spirit is producing it, and recording it. If you all would just put me on your prayer list . . . I need that!”

By the time we went into the studio, some weeks later, Bill had seen Keith in concert several times. He knew exactly what Keith could do and was committed to capturing it on tape—if it could be done. Usually the instrumental tracks are laid down before a singer overdubs his vocals. Keith made his demos that way, too. But Bill wanted to try something different. He sat Keith at the piano, with a headset and a mike, and said, “We’re going to do this ‘live’.” Then Bill came into the control booth where I was watching through the glass.

The tapes were rolling now, and Bill gave Keith the nod.

Keith was only halfway through the first verse when Bill and I exchanged wide-eyed looks. Something sparked! The song definitely had life!

Bill had pinpointed that indefinable something that made the difference between the slick homogenized demos Keith had had produced for years, and a vibrant, exciting recording. Of course! Keith always sang and played at the same time. His voice played off of the energy and rhythm he was feeling from the piano—and vice versa. Now we were cooking!

As Keith expected with making a Christian album, there wasn’t a big budget compared to the tens, and sometimes hundreds of thousands that go into a secular album. We only had $15,000 to work with. But there are some things money can’t buy. Together, Bill and Keith were capturing Keith’s raw energy, emotions, and spiritual heart cry. The songs were fresh and the delivery was powerful. And when you listened, you had an uncanny sense that you were hearing from someone more than just Keith Green.

Besides the prayer support Keith had been asking for at his concerts, the people who lived with us formed prayer teams. They faithfully prayed during every studio session throughout the whole recording.

While Keith and Bill were mixing the tracks one afternoon, Keith said confidently, “God told me this is going to be one of the biggest selling Christian albums ever!”

Bill raised an eyebrow skeptically. “How do you know that?”

“Because I told the Lord I’d give the money I made back to him to use for his work—and not just put it all into my own pocket. So I know he’s going to bless it.”

Bill could sense Keith wasn’t speaking out of arrogance, but from a sincere desire to help others. This really touched Bill—but a history-making Christian album? Only time would tell.

Keith fittingly named the album, For Him Who Has Ears To Hear, taken from the beginning of The Book of Revelation: “For him who has ears to hear, let him hear what the Spirit is saying to the churches. . . .” Who has ears to hear what God is saying? Obviously, it is supposed to be the Church. But was it possible to have the right “equipment” and still be deaf to the voice of God? Keith wanted to sing to the people who were in-tune with God —or be used as a tool to help unplug the ears of the ones who weren’t.

By the summer of 1977, Keith’s debut album was in the bookstores. And we had a big mailing party at our house to send out the albums to the 6,000 people who had pre-ordered it at concerts over the past several months. Keith told everyone he’d send it to them “hot off the press”—and he did.

Rather than just throw away the names of 6,000 people who seemed to be interested in receiving further encouragement and ministry, Keith said, “Let’s just keep in touch with all these people and put together a little newsletter to encourage them in their walk with the Lord.” And so, The Last Days Newsletter was born.

Just before Keith’s album was released he started working with Steve Greisen, who was engaged to Nelly Ward of Second Chapter of Acts. Buck Herring and Steve wanted to help lesser known artists with valid ministries get out on the road. Steve would do the bookings, and they took Keith on. Buck wrote a letter of recommendation, which was a big help because Keith was only well known on the west coast. As usual, Keith had big ideas.

“I want to tour the whole country this summer!” Keith directed Steve. “Can you set it up?”

Steve set up a fifty-two-city tour, and off we went! We’d even retired the “Blue Guppy” and bought a thirty-two-foot motor home we dubbed “The Ark”. That way we had enough room to take several new Christians along with us. During our nine weeks on the road we had plenty of time to counsel them and encourage them in the Lord. And they became our “road team” which was a big help to us, too.

What a tour.

Keith’s album had just been released, so he was still unknown. He ended up singing to a lot of “built-in” audiences at coffee houses, youth group meetings, and regular church services. Often Keith would joke about his hair, beard, and less-than-brand-new blue jeans to relax all the gray-haired saints who came not knowing what kind of music Keith was going to play.

“Somebody drug their grandmother here tonight,” he’d say, “and she’s looking over at me saying, ‘Do you bear witness to this?’ I just wanna say that God works in mysterious ways, and I am one of his mysterious ways. I know you haven’t seen this much hair up on the pulpit before—but God doesn’t look on the outside to see what kind of a Christian you are. He looks on the inside.

“Now I don’t wanna upset anybody who’s used to listening to Lawrence Welk a lot because I do get into the piano. Aren’t you glad I’m not playing electric guitar?”

Usually, by this time, he’d put everyone at ease.

But there were some very difficult aspects to this tour. Some nights, the promised housing didn’t happen and we had to rent our own rooms unexpectedly. And it seemed that adequate sound systems and tuned pianos were rare commodities. Over all, the audiences were sparse and some nights we’d make little or nothing. One pastor who brought Keith in told Steve in advance, “He can come, but Chuck Girard is in town the same night and I know who I’d rather go see.” But God was teaching us to be grateful in all things—the big and the small. Shortly after we returned, Keith reflected on the tour to a concert crowd in southern California.

“I just got back from the road,” he told them. “I’ve heard people say, ‘It’s worth it when only one person comes forward to receive the Lord.’ I say, yeah, it is worth it. There were some real humbling concerts. Like twenty people. One person would come forward. I’d sit down at the end of the stage and when they’d come forward I’d say, ‘You’re the whole reason why I came to this town.’”

“And then there were other really beautiful times. I played an Army base in Fort Leonardwood, Missouri, for about 500 young recruits. They felt a little bit out of place. They didn’t have any hair, and they were all about eighteen. Under their breath they were saying, ‘I want my mommy!’ And they were all sitting there freaking out about being in the Army. And the Lord got to them in that state, because 350 got up and received Jesus!”

We had learned at the Vineyard that every trial was an opportunity to grow—and we certainly grew on that nine-week tour.

We were growing at home, too. Because now there were over a dozen new Christians with us. So as money came in from Keith’s concerts, studio sessions, and album sales it was poured back into helping the people who had come to live with us.

We’d moved Keith’s piano into our bedroom and turned his music room into a dormitory. Counseling, helping, encouraging, witnessing—it pervaded every part of our life. And the best part about it was how much fun it was! It was an adventure every day—wondering what would happen next. If someone wanted to give their life to the Lord, or serve God in a deeper way, we’d do whatever we needed to do to help make it happen. And I knew I needed to stay as flexible as possible, since Keith was so naturally “spontaneous”.

As every available sleeping space in the house slowly filled, Keith had a growing desire to move out into the country. We thought it would be wonderful to get the people who needed help out of the big city and into a place that would be peaceful and restful—somewhere that wasn’t filled with so many glaring, easy access temptations. Besides, we didn’t know how long our neighbors would put up with our endless streams of what, by their standards, probably looked like a group of aliens.

Keith and I both loved the Pacific Northwest, and thought for sure we could find a farm or ranch for sale up there. Keith really wanted to live in the woods, while I wanted to live by the ocean. I hoped we could find a little place nestled in the trees—with an ocean view!

On our next concert tour to the Pacific Northwest late in the summer, we continued to spy out the land for possible places to move. One of our stops was in a little town called Sweethome, Oregon. A family from the small church where Keith was playing housed us, and they lived out on a beautiful farm. It was haying season and they were out on their tractors—wearing straw hats, and bonnets, and praying it wouldn’t rain between the time they cut the hay and got it baled. In spite of our hippie, “whole-earth” orientation, we were really new to being in the country, so it was an incredible scene to behold. We felt like we were staying at the Little House on the Prairie!

The family loaned us their motorcycle and told us we could take it for a ride in the woods. There was only one problem—the roads weren’t paved and we kept getting stuck in the mud. We also got lost. And the motorcycle kept dying on us. So there we were, lost out in the backwoods, with a dead, muddy bike.

Just when I started to think, Oh Keith, what have you gotten us into now, a guy came wandering out of the woods. He was thin, with shoulder-length blond hair. The only thing he was wearing was a leather headband and a very skimpy loincloth, but he was carrying a clipboard and a pencil. He was actually talking to the trees, obviously high on something. His name was Rick. We talked with him for a few minutes and he told us he lived alone in a tepee in the woods.

Right there, in the middle of nowhere, Keith and I began talking to this blond “primitive” about Jesus. Fortunately, by the time we had to leave, Rick was clearheaded enough to tell us how to find our way out!

As it turned out, Rick came—at our invitation—to the concert that evening. He had on some jeans and a red flannel shirt—and we were grateful for that! Still, he was one of a kind in that country congregation, and I prayed he wouldn’t panic and leave before Keith asked for commitments to Jesus.

Rick did give his life to the Lord that night and—you guessed it—he accompanied us back to southern California. The only place for him to sleep, however, was in our garage now because our house was packed full of women—all except for a young neighbor boy, who was only twelve. Jeff was having some problems at home and his mom wanted him to stay with us temporarily. The only place for him was sleeping in a sleeping bag on the floor of our bedroom.

So now we had something like fourteen people living with us in our little three-bedroom house with only one bathroom! You couldn’t go anywhere in the house without running into someone—and I do mean running into them—who needed counseling.

And we still kept meeting people who needed a place to stay so they could escape a bad situation and get grounded in their new faith in Jesus. Only there wasn’t any place left at our house. Not only did Keith no longer have a private place to write music, he could barely get a turn in the bathroom with all the women in the house! What could we do? Our answer came in an unexpected way.

When Dawn came to live with us, a few years before, we had needed to obtain some type of legal authority to enroll her in school. Karen approved of us becoming Dawn’s foster parents, but the State of California needed to approve us as well. We didn’t accept the regular foster parent money the state provided, which meant they wouldn’t visit us as much. But we still had to pass a housing inspection because government standards required a certain amount of “airspace” in Dawn’s bedroom. We had passed everything with flying colors—then.

Now it was time for another visit from Dawn’s social worker, and we knew our crowded living conditions would make her eyes bug out. We were in quite a dilemma. There was no way we were going to lose Dawn. But we also knew we couldn’t put everyone else out into the streets. What were we going to do? One afternoon, Keith and I had a rare moment alone to talk about it.

“What are we going to do?” I began. “We need more space—that's all there is to it.”

“I’ve got an idea,” Keith said, his face brightening. “Let’s rent another house.”

“It might work,” I replied, thoughtfully. “But—wait a minute. We’ve been here almost three years and I’ve never even seen a house for rent in this neighborhood. Everybody owns their own home.”

Keith’s brow was furrowed in thought. “There are those apartments about a mile away,” Keith said. “—but they’ll never rent one to a bunch of wild-looking, single hippies. . . . Hey, I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we rent one!”

“You mean move out of our own house?”

“Yeah, they’ll for sure rent one of those places to a nice family with a teenage daughter!”

We did have some extra money because of Keith’s new album. Later that day, we drove over and looked at a two-bedroom apartment. It wasn’t far away so we’d still be close to people back at the house, and Dawn could have her own room which would make the State of California happy. We put a deposit on the apartment and went home.

The whole thing seemed kind of crazy, but it was also really exciting. We were scheduled to move in a few weeks and my mind was getting into gear for packing. But before we had a chance to make the move, the strangest thing happened.

We were driving though our neighborhood one day, and suddenly Keith said, “Mel, look! A ‘For Rent’ sign!”

Sure enough. It was right in front of a nice-looking house with a big tree in the front yard. Unbelievable.

We rented it immediately. It was a nice three-bedroom place with a den. We moved all the singles over there, and cleared out a bedroom for Dawn in our house. Dawn’s social worker came and went—and so, by the end of 1977, we had become a “two house” family.

We needed a name for the new house so that when we talked about it we’d be able to separate it from our house on Dolorosa Street. The new house was on Sale Street, so we just called it The Sale House.

In no time, it seemed, we had filled up both houses again.

These were powerful times. These were innocent times. We just did what was in our hearts to do. We were always on the run—and unaware of how our lives were about to change, one more time.

Keith closed the year by playing at The Daisy—but this night in particular was strangely different. It was a New Year’s celebration and I was sipping some kind of fruit juice, watching Keith minister. He was only about twelve feet away so I could see him clearly. By now I’d watched Keith play hundreds of times, but this night burned in my memory.

The spotlight was bright white—flooding Keith’s face with light. His eyes were aching as he sang. Overflowing with unspoken feelings as he poured out his very soul. But as he sang, he was not looking at the audience. He was looking up into the light, as if he were looking directly at God. He seemed transfixed in time . . . like there was something holy or significant about the moment. His eyes were the bluest of blue, sparkling, yet crying out. His skin like milk. He looked like a little boy. But his eyes. His eyes were haunting as he looked up into the light. I had the strangest sensation while watching him.

When the thought first came I shook it away. But it came back. As I sat and watched I was captured by the moment and thought, Keith Green—you’re not long for this earth. . . .

Immediately I wondered where that thought came from. It was crazy to even think such a thing.

I didn’t know what Keith was thinking, or hearing from the Lord in those moments. Later I didn’t ask him—and I didn’t tell him what I had thought either. But it would not be the last time I had feelings like that about him . . .