And soon, a farewell
That would be to Dr. John. Actually, I've already been to the hospital, on Wednesday, and patted his hand and told him he's one of the greatest men I've ever known. I don't know that he knew I was there, or who I was, but I told him. I haven't been back but I understand many, many friends have made that same pilgrimage since they heard the word "hospice" in the same sentence with his name. I've spent a good part of two days plowing through historical files about his presidency -- it's what I do at times like this. The stack is high, and full of great stories, but it doesn't begin to tell the story. My humble summation of them won't do him justice either, though I'll try.
Writing about people at the end of their lives seems to some an odd task, even a depressing one. To me, it's a gift, gifts actually. To tell the truth of a life one more time is one of the few gifts that matters that I can offer a family at such a time. And to have the privilege of telling it is an honor and gift I receive from them and never feel I deserve. Especially this time.
Having been here since Noah, I often encounter notes and memos in those stacks of files that I wrote myself 25 years and several job descriptions ago. In this stack, I found several of those. I found a few paragraphs I played with when drafting a story about him as he stepped out of the president's office and into the chancellor's. I don't recall whether I used them then, but I will now:
"His eyes twinkle when he tells a story, and they flash when he speaks his mind. He followed the steps of a man who could not be folowed. Choosing not to follow, he has become a legend in his own right.
"His presidency has been shaped not only by his common sense, but by his sense of history, his sense of purpose, and his sense of humor.
"In 1938, he signed the college yearbook of a friend [my Dad], 'John Stevens, the executive,' a quip prompted by a photo of him with Dean Walter Adams at the opening of the annual's administration section. A cynic would call it a quirk. A Christian calls it providence.
"Providence has placed him in the most difficult places at the most difficult times. During the Depression, he was a student. At Normandy and the Battle of the Bulge, he was a chaplain. And during the '60s he was a college president."
Tonight, he's frail and mortal, a shadow of the greatness he shared with us. But soon, immortal, and in the shadow of His hand. Godspeed, Dr. John, and farewell. May this victory march be swift and sweet.
Writing about people at the end of their lives seems to some an odd task, even a depressing one. To me, it's a gift, gifts actually. To tell the truth of a life one more time is one of the few gifts that matters that I can offer a family at such a time. And to have the privilege of telling it is an honor and gift I receive from them and never feel I deserve. Especially this time.
Having been here since Noah, I often encounter notes and memos in those stacks of files that I wrote myself 25 years and several job descriptions ago. In this stack, I found several of those. I found a few paragraphs I played with when drafting a story about him as he stepped out of the president's office and into the chancellor's. I don't recall whether I used them then, but I will now:
"His eyes twinkle when he tells a story, and they flash when he speaks his mind. He followed the steps of a man who could not be folowed. Choosing not to follow, he has become a legend in his own right.
"His presidency has been shaped not only by his common sense, but by his sense of history, his sense of purpose, and his sense of humor.
"In 1938, he signed the college yearbook of a friend [my Dad], 'John Stevens, the executive,' a quip prompted by a photo of him with Dean Walter Adams at the opening of the annual's administration section. A cynic would call it a quirk. A Christian calls it providence.
"Providence has placed him in the most difficult places at the most difficult times. During the Depression, he was a student. At Normandy and the Battle of the Bulge, he was a chaplain. And during the '60s he was a college president."
Tonight, he's frail and mortal, a shadow of the greatness he shared with us. But soon, immortal, and in the shadow of His hand. Godspeed, Dr. John, and farewell. May this victory march be swift and sweet.
posted by Cheryl | 8:09 PM
|
4 Comments
