There are moments imprinted on our souls that change who we are -- a wedding day, the death of a dear friend. Sometimes, these events tumble too close to each other and the mind can't make sense of them. But I think the heart can.

Kevin Brock, a good friend and deeply respected Chapel Hill musician, was married Oct. 18 to his beloved Casey Robertson and then, early in the morning Nov. 3, Kevin died in his sleep. He was 37.

You might not know Kevin, but you might know his music. He played drums with jazz trios, rock bands, funk bands, blues bands, world music groups and bands that can't be labeled. He backed several solo artists on the Community Music Project and taught many instruments to dozens of kids. And if you ever saw Paperhand Puppet Intervention at the Forest Theatre, then you heard Kevin lead the pit orchestra while playing drums, bells, whistles, kazoos, piano, chimes, shakers and God knows what else often simultaneously. They called him Brocktopus.

I played several shows with Kevin and Casey, along with my wife Maia and our dear friend Paul Ford, another Paperhand Puppet veteran. During one show in Pittsboro, I swear Kevin's percussion brought God into the room. At a memorial service for Kevin this past Sunday, musicians spoke of similar supernatural experiences while playing with Kevin. He was a creative genius.

But it wasn't just his playing we loved. We adored the man, his humility, generosity, passion, risk-taking and authenticity. It must be said that Kevin wasn't endowed at birth with all the virtues we saw in him. He worked at it.

Kevin wasn't perfect. He'd get too angry and make mistakes like the rest of us, but he walked with a bounce in his step and lived in the now, ferociously. All he wanted from us, his friends, was to be our authentic selves. I remember when I told Kevin about my most sacred of writing ideas. I told him I was figuring out a way to see all the world's religions as one spiritual reality and how my goal was to kick the crap out of literalness. His big blue eyes lit up as he grabbed my arm and said, "Man, I am so glad you're bringing your passion and your words to the world. Oh man, I love it; I love it!"

And now I'm challenged to defy the literalness of his death and seek the spiritual truth that Casey spoke about so eloquently and passionately at the memorial service.

For me, there's little use talking of heaven because if it exists, Kevin is surely there. If there is any kind of afterlife, and I admit I'm a believer, then Kevin is surely basking in God's glory. But I don't care to pontificate about that. I think something else is going on.

Any virtuous, loving person -- whether a prophet or a nameless soul known only to friends and family -- is always sorely missed. But even a prophet's life is not as important as his message.

Kevin was no prophet, but he was an inspired soul, as anyone who knew him will attest. His physical body was the lamp and his music and way of being in the world were the light. I miss him greatly; the loneliness I feel makes me wonder why I wasn't even better friends with him than I was. But now that he's gone, I have a choice. I can reminisce and be sad that I'll never play music with him again. Or I can honor Kevin by keeping him in my heart as an eternal reminder of how a true artist can be an incredible force for good in the world.

I wish he were here. I wish he were by Casey's side right now. I wish we could play one more show. But wishing won't bring him back. The only thing that will bring back Kevin is to be passionate about our gifts, generous with our talents and time, authentic with our peers, devoted to our spouses, and desirous of fulfilling our purpose here on Earth.

I don't know exactly how he did it, but I'm going to try. And with Kevin's help, I'm going to succeed.

Mark Derewicz is a writer living in Chatham County. He can be contacted through his blog, mdubbleu.wordpress.com