I had seen death before.
But I hadn’t felt its dagger slice into me like it did when my dad died.
He was alive one day. The next day he was dead.
Death became shockingly personal, and when it does your world stops.
Oh yes, the world goes on, outside of you. Its apparent indifference stuns you.
Like the grieving mother in Robert Frost’s “Home Burial” you want to say: “…the world’s evil. I won’t have grief so/ If I can change it./ Oh, I won’t, I won’t.”
The sudden death of someone close freezes your mind into disbelief. And it silences your tongue.
Weeping and groaning are the language of mourning.
You dig your nails in the earth, bury your tears in the pillow at its finality.
But I hadn’t felt its dagger slice into me like it did when my dad died.
He was alive one day. The next day he was dead.
Death became shockingly personal, and when it does your world stops.
Oh yes, the world goes on, outside of you. Its apparent indifference stuns you.
Like the grieving mother in Robert Frost’s “Home Burial” you want to say: “…the world’s evil. I won’t have grief so/ If I can change it./ Oh, I won’t, I won’t.”
The sudden death of someone close freezes your mind into disbelief. And it silences your tongue.
Weeping and groaning are the language of mourning.
You dig your nails in the earth, bury your tears in the pillow at its finality.
Only poets plumb the depths of overwhelming feelings and sometimes
find words to express them.
I think I brought something of that painful, personal encounter with the sudden death of a parent to my teaching later on. In literature one is never far away from death; often, too often, as Ernest Hemingway observed, “…the death of the very good and the very gentle and the very brave.”
When I joined the Calvin College English department in 1968, I did not expect that the death of the very good and the very gentle and the very brave would strike so terribly close, again and again.
But it did.
Prof. Henry Zylstra, chair of the department, had collapsed in 1956 on the streets of Amsterdam from a heart attack at the age of 47. But he would not be the last.
Harmon Hook died in 1974 from a brain tumor at age 39.
Stanley Wiersma, while on a Fulbright as Henry Zylstra had been, died in 1986 at age 55 in Amsterdam from complications following emergency surgery.
Howard McConaughy, in his first year at Calvin, died in 1992 of liver cancer, only weeks after diagnosis, at the age of 34.
Kenneth Kuiper died in 1998 at age 68, before he could enjoy the rewards of retirement, from a lingering illness.
Lionel Basney, a man of profound knowledge and wisdom, died in 1999 at age 52 from accidental drowning.
William Vande Kopple, vibrant with life and laughter, died in 2013 at age 63 shortly after a diagnosis of pancreatic cancer.
Anne Schmidt, beloved wife of English professor Gary Schmidt, died at age 55 not many days after a diagnosis of liver cancer.
I think I brought something of that painful, personal encounter with the sudden death of a parent to my teaching later on. In literature one is never far away from death; often, too often, as Ernest Hemingway observed, “…the death of the very good and the very gentle and the very brave.”
When I joined the Calvin College English department in 1968, I did not expect that the death of the very good and the very gentle and the very brave would strike so terribly close, again and again.
But it did.
Prof. Henry Zylstra, chair of the department, had collapsed in 1956 on the streets of Amsterdam from a heart attack at the age of 47. But he would not be the last.
Harmon Hook died in 1974 from a brain tumor at age 39.
Stanley Wiersma, while on a Fulbright as Henry Zylstra had been, died in 1986 at age 55 in Amsterdam from complications following emergency surgery.
Howard McConaughy, in his first year at Calvin, died in 1992 of liver cancer, only weeks after diagnosis, at the age of 34.
Kenneth Kuiper died in 1998 at age 68, before he could enjoy the rewards of retirement, from a lingering illness.
Lionel Basney, a man of profound knowledge and wisdom, died in 1999 at age 52 from accidental drowning.
William Vande Kopple, vibrant with life and laughter, died in 2013 at age 63 shortly after a diagnosis of pancreatic cancer.
Anne Schmidt, beloved wife of English professor Gary Schmidt, died at age 55 not many days after a diagnosis of liver cancer.
These were good people who were taken before they or we
could anticipate such a final farewell.
And they left huge holes, precisely because their lives had been such an important part of our own.
And they left huge holes, precisely because their lives had been such an important part of our own.
“Rage, rage against the dying of the light,” said Dylan
Thomas.
And we did. Students too.
Students spoke fondly of Henry Zylstra’s classes as “a revelation.” He gave all of us “more to be Christian with.”
They remembered Harmon Hook as one who gave joy and light to others, who taught as a person, not professor, teaching them as people, and not as students.
And we did. Students too.
Students spoke fondly of Henry Zylstra’s classes as “a revelation.” He gave all of us “more to be Christian with.”
They remembered Harmon Hook as one who gave joy and light to others, who taught as a person, not professor, teaching them as people, and not as students.
The reality of someone you knew and felt close to suddenly
disappearing from your world stuns the mind into incomprehension and plunges
you into the dark valley of grief. A
treasured relationship is cut off. You
realize, maybe for the first time, that there was love in that relationship,
and your heart aches with its absence. Perhaps
none of us ever gets used to someone special being gone. Deep down, the loss is always felt. And the admonition of Shakespeare inhabits
our being more forcefully:
“This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.”
“This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.”
Yes, we mourn the losses in our life. We stumble in our sadness, sometimes we fall.
But the words that Stan Wiersma left behind in a sealed letter stir us to rise: “There is work to be done and a lovely world to be inherited more fully….”
But the words that Stan Wiersma left behind in a sealed letter stir us to rise: “There is work to be done and a lovely world to be inherited more fully….”
Thus we rise again, for God gives us, the living, work to
do. As Tolkien reminds us: “All we have
to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”
And God gives us faith – the faith of Kenneth Kuiper who wrote: “The most important tombstone for us … is the round one … which was rolled away by the angel of the Lord from Jesus’ tomb…. chiseled into our hearts and minds are the words of the young men in long white garments, ‘HE IS RISEN.’
And so shall we be.”
And God gives us faith – the faith of Kenneth Kuiper who wrote: “The most important tombstone for us … is the round one … which was rolled away by the angel of the Lord from Jesus’ tomb…. chiseled into our hearts and minds are the words of the young men in long white garments, ‘HE IS RISEN.’
And so shall we be.”
Therefore, “let evening come…don’t be afraid…God does not
leave us comfortless.” (Jane Kenyon)
