 In the spring of my sixteenth year, I was given a black mountain bike. It quickly became my favorite possession, because it gave me a newfound freedom. I rode miles and miles each day after school, and spent entire days in the summer riding it around the countryside and throughout the village.
One of my favorite destinations was to Milligan Road, where Jack and Ruth Esau lived. Jack was a local historian, proud Marine, and beloved friend to the community. (You can read more about Jack in a previous post here). Ruth was a remarkable woman. Her father died when she was just two years old. She contracted polio as a child, and suffered from post-polio syndrome as an adult. But Ruth’s “sad past”, as she often referred to it, did not keep her from leading an extraordinary life. She went to college, married, had children, enjoyed her career as a teacher, and was active in community affairs. While this may not seem unusual today, for a young woman in the 1930s and ‘40s, she was quite progressive. When I met Ruth, she was nearly 90 years old, but her mind was sharp and her elocution (a word she taught me, I think) was precise. I was cautious with my speech around her, because, ever the teacher, she would sometimes stop me mid-sentence to correct my grammar. (We once had a week-long discussion about the distinction between “who” and “whom”). Considering that I knew Ruth for only a couple of years, she had an inordinate and profound impact on my life. Our conversations--sometimes in person, other times by phone or letter--went deeper than the weather and the latest news from the village. We talked about history, art, music, and the two topics we did not agree on--politics and theology. Although I’m sure she did not realize it at the time, Ruth taught me how to disagree with someone on fundamental issues, yet still be friends with that person. I remember, early on in our friendship, that I made the mistake of inferring from something she said that the Esaus were Republicans. Ruth laughed, a glimmer in her eye. “We are diehard Democrats!” Jack answered. I stood corrected. Ruth’s impact on my life was that of a truly great teacher. She corrected my grammar and taught me things I did not know; but her greatest lessons came to me in a far more powerful way. She influenced me. While doing research at the library one afternoon, I came across a note Ruth had written to a prominent community leader back in 1965. It was a note thanking the woman for the work she had done on in spearheading the town’s centennial celebration. How remarkable, I thought, that Ruth wrote a note to this leader, not for something she had done for Ruth, personally, but something she did for the community at large. That simple note, unbeknownst to Ruth, had such an impact on me that I have adopted her practice, writing brief notes to those whose work I appreciate and want to encourage. Another lesson Ruth taught me, and one I am still working at, is writing with clarity. She once told me that she wrote the way she spoke. My English teachers and professors have cautioned their students against such a practice; but it worked for Ruth, because she spoke perfectly. I don’t remember her even using contractions in her speech (she would probably correct this sentence). I often hear her voice when I am writing, critiquing my style and grammar. Of greater importance was the way in which Ruth welcomed everyone into her home. As a long-time friend of the Esau family once wrote, “One of the great joys of visiting [the Esaus] was that one could never anticipate what new ideas, inspirations, or for that matter people that you might encounter.” Indeed, Ruth was liberal, in the true sense of the word, and I loved her for it. She enjoyed talking about a range of topics and welcomed into her home an equally wide variety of people, even those with whom she might not agree (even a young, 15-year-old Republican, like me). Recently, a cultural commentator was asked why he never ran for political office. His answer was profound. He said, “Politicians want power over people. I’d rather have influence on people.” This morning, as I remember Ruth on the eleventh anniversary of her death, I smile, because that was Ruth’s secret power: influence. And I am a better person for it.
1 Comment
 Three weeks ago, I made a quick trip to London, Ontario to visit Frank Morris, a 95-year-old man who has been both a friend and mentor to me for the past decade. He had been moved from his home to an assisted living facility.
During the drive to Canada, I thought about this man who had been such an encouragement to me and to others, now suffering from dementia. “Will he know who I am?” I thought to myself. “Will we be able to have meaningful conversation, as we used to?” These thoughts continued as a nurse led me down the hall to his room. I knocked lightly, as I entered the softly lit room. There on the bed was the frail form of my dear friend, a bit confused, but smiling nonetheless. “Hi, Frank,” I said, doubting that he would recognize me. “Well, hello, Tyler,” he said, as if he had been expecting me. I was overjoyed. Throughout our hour-long visit, very little was said. He told me, several times, that he was confused about where he was. Each time, his wife gently reminded him that he was in a good place where he was being taken care of very well. As I sat there, thumbing through a book of old photographs–sepia tone glimpses into Frank’s past–my mind traveled to the wise pieces of advice he had shared with me throughout the years. “Humility is one of the greatest character traits one can have…” “Never let intellectualism snuff out your love for the Lord…” “Throughout your life, you will have many successes and ‘also-rans’. Take them all in stride and thank God for all of them…” The words echoed in my mind. “Frank,” I said to him, “do you ever think about Heaven?” His eyes were closed, but he gave a resolute nod. Yes. “Are you ready to go?” “Yes.” “Is there anyone there you want to see?” At this, he looked at me with a big smile. “Yes!” he said. Before I left, we took a couple of pictures of the two of us, and one of he and his wife. I gave Frank a hug, knowing it would be the last I would give him this side of Heaven. “Frank,” I said, “I’m not going to see you for a little while. But I will see you again later. Alright?” “Ok, Tyler. Ok,” he said. Six days later, I received a message from a mutual friend: “Frank passed away this morning.” Even though I have the promise of God’s Word that those who have trusted in Christ as their Savior are with the Lord, I cried and cried, feeling a void–one less good man on the earth. No more phone calls. No more time-tested wisdom. No more letters encouraging me to stay close to Christ and His Word. But I am thankful. I am thankful I had the opportunity to say “See you later”. I am thankful that Frank’s funeral service was exactly what he would have wanted—a time of worship to the Lord. I am thankful that I had the opportunity to meet the children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren he cared so much for. Most importantly, however, I am thankful for the example of a life well lived, because it was lived for Jesus Christ. |
AuthorTy Perry is a writer and blogger living in metro Detroit. Archives
December 2023
Categories
All
|
RSS Feed