To anyone who reads this, I’m sorry. I’ve been delinquent (or I guess distracted with other things) these past two weeks. Dr. Schmidt ended up dying a week ago on Tuesday. I was lucky enough to get one more chance to see him on Sunday before he was too weak for visitors. He died in hospice with Judy by his side. It’s been a hard time for everyone in the Religion department, but little blessings routinely appear: like friends.

Friends are amazing. I have the routine trouble of keeping up with old friends, but the littlest things bring us back together again and again. Richard Newton, my roommate for a year and classmate for 9 different courses, was also able to put into words what his last moments with Dr. Schmidt were like. (Just be forewarned — AMAZING):

From Richard Newton:
As the elevator ascended, I pondered over what my last words could be to a man whose words have meant so much to me. The way he spoke, whether in oratory or in conversation, always conveyed passion and flare. This time, when I would hear him speak, the passion he envoked would display the often forgotten aspect of passion which has disappeared from vernacular connotation– he would be suffering. At the time, what words could I share that would help him; yet, now, as I think about it, I was more concered with what words would help me. As a pastor, I’ve grown familiar with hospitals and the power of comforting words and silence; but now, I would be walking the halls, in search of a room where my teacher lay and I would once again be the student. I would once againg be the one with questions. I would once again be the one in need of guidance. This time and maybe for the first time ever in the history of our relationship, I wanted to serve him. As fate would have it, this time there was little I could do.

The elevator doors opened and I walked past his room. A sign read that he would take no more visitors but that all could go to a courtesy room and leave a note. I went to the room and was greeted by his family. They beared some physical resemblance to him but they all beared the mark of those whose hearts had been touched by a sheperd of a man. They had experienced Dr. Schmidt’s gentleness. They had seen him smile. They had heard him laugh. They had known his love in a way different yet familiar way than I had. We greeted each other as strangers do, however the words we shared rightfully took a back seat to the emotions we held in common- saddness, anxiety, bewilderment, and confusion. Soon after they went to his room to see if he felt well enough for me to come see him. I finished the note by the time they returned and they took me to his room.

I met his wife, Judy. She had a strength that I didn’t even know how to pray for. I wondered what they talked about and shared in their last moments together but knew that I would never know. I hoped they were the type of things that made the great stories that we all wanted to hear, but I hope that it was in a language that only they could understand. Meanings conveyed in a dialect that was incomprehensible to anyone save those who had experienced what they had experienced together.

She said that it was fine for me to enter the room and I felt both joy and pain. How could she give me a portion fof the last moments she would get to share with him? I suppose she knew that Dr. Schmidt’s seeing me might just give him a little more joy or peace and that was worth something to her. I guess the greatest love is about sacrifice– even in the very end.

When I walked into his room, I saw him. This time he wasn’t wearing khaki pants and cowboy boots. This time he didn’t have his glasses on. This time he was connected to machines. This time he was still. I came over to the side of his bed and sat in a chair. We gripped hands like we never had before. It wasn’t a handshake, it was a hold. It was an embrace, the likes of which are shared when a friend lifts the other up from the ground. I don’t know who was who though. The thank you’s he showered me with would have me think that I was lifting him up in some way but the strange peace I felt would indicate otherwise.

I greeted him with a Kali heMera, as we did everyday we saw each other. His face lit up. I saw the wide-eyed stare that only Dr. Schmidt could give, as he said “Kali heMera, Kali heMera indeed!” We shared how he was doing and he said that he was doing alright but he knew how he was doing, and he wanted to know what I had been up to as of late. He was thrilled to hear about my receiving of generous fellowships at Garrett-Evangelical, Perkins, and Wesley. Unfortuantely at the time, I could not tell him where I wanted to go but he assured me that I can’t go wrong with any. He was delighted to find that I was already serving two churches as a pastor. Until then, it had been difficult to be joyous of these blessings while I knew he was suffering. His pride in me let me know that I should be celebrating.

He asked about how Sarah was doing and he wished us such blessings. He told me that in this time he has learned that blessings and prayers mean so much and how he doesn’t take them for granted. He also learned not to waste time, for even though it hurt him to speak, he sipped some water and spoke to me just as he always would- verbose yet captivating, extemporaneously but timely, pensive yet candid. I had asked him if he had still been thinking alot. He said,”Oh yeah, I wake up in the mornings and I think about life and translations. Lately I’ve been thinking about the last part of Romans 8.” He said that it taken on a whole new meaning and had a new application to him. He said that his disposition had helped him realize the greater meanings behind the scriptures, “just like you have to do when you preach to people every week.” I laughed because I couldn’t imagine being one-up on Dr. Schmdit about anything-even when we disagreed. Trying to relate to his epiphany, I told him how living in the country taught me about the blessing and importance of things like rain and how I have a new perspective from which to interpret apropo scriptures. After saying this I, felt so stupid. Could I really compare my East Texas immersion to a professor’s last thoughts? His face gave me affirmation as he once again lit up and displayed his intrigue with my statement.

He said “Yeah, like the saying, the rain falls on the just and the unjust. People always say that life is just not fair…or what is it…oh yeah! ‘Why Me?’ If ‘why me’ is your first question, you are asking the wrong question. We all deal with things, and good things and bad things happen to us. It’s part of life. Life is about sharing and experiencing as much as we can. If all you can think of is ‘Why Me?’ your are missing the point.”

I was awestruck. I wanted to ask what the first question we should ask is, but I knew that only I could answer that for myself. He was still challenging me, giving me more to think about.

When I finally left the room, he kept on saying “Bless you and Sarah, Thank you, Bless you.” I didn’t want to let go of his hand and even when I did, we still tried to hold on as long as possible. As I reached the door, I turned and he waved to me one last time.

As the door closed behind me, I could only think of the most important lesson he had taught me, never in words but in spirit and truth. “Life must go on.”

Grace and Peace to you teach and friend.
God Bless You Dr. Schmidt

THANK YOU Richard!

Shock and awe. Those are the words that opened the second war with Iraq. Every news source gathered that “shock and awe” were the words to use for describing the destruction that happened in Baghdad that night. It was only two class sessions later when Dr. Schmidt did, as fester Prose points out, his normal: he turned on a word.

It’s a practice to which we all had to grow accustomed. “How would we say this today” or, better yet, “Why would a writer have picked this phrase instead of that one?” Those questions were common, not only in my first Greek classes, but also the later ones where it was just him and I. From those two simple questions would come answers we least expected but in the end were often agreeing with. It was those questions that drove his research and drove his teaching. It was those questions that drove him.

I forget off the top of my head where it was, but we were translating either one of Paul’s conversion stories or the transfiguration and he turned on a word (well, in this case a phrase). He asked those questions, and then gave us a simple question as an answer: do you think this was their worldview’s version of “shock and awe”? It was a sense of horror, a sense of dumbfoundedness and a sense of fear all wrapped into one. Why are we now full of shock and awe again?

Two Sundays ago I was just finishing a conference at TCU and went over to Daryl and Judy’s. I had bought some Italy maps a couple of weeks before when I was housesitting for them and I gave them a list of my favorite places; they were originally scheduled to go on a 2-month trip starting this past Monday to Florence, Italy and Greece. He’d already had permission to use the Laurentian libraries at San Lorenzo in Florence and even permission to use the Vatican archives in Rome as well as the monsteries at Mt. Athos in Greece for his research. He was set.

When they returned from their trip to California in mid-February, they took him to the doctor and found he had a case of anemia. He’d had one several years before as well and the doctors started treating, testing and trying to get his body back to order so they could make their Europe trip.

When it got closer to the date, they knew it wasn’t solved yet and their trip would be postponed. That Sunday, they let me give them a taste of Italy by cooking saltimbocca and a spaghetti with lemon sauce. It was three hours where I prepared it all in front of them and talked: about my Italy experience, about his research in California and what he and Judy were wanting to do in Europe. It was wonderful.

Then came the phone call this past Monday: Judy called and said that he’d had a colonoscopy the previous Wednesday and there was cancer and it was in the colon with some in the liver and lungs. That phone call began what I knew of his end.

Yesterday was full of little details I heard from people around Beasley Hall on his condition. I didn’t know much concrete besides that it was bad. We heard yesterday afternoon that Judy had called his family and they had come down. At that point we knew it was really bad.

At 10:35 this morning I went downstairs and talked to Dr. Lahustky. I peeked my head in the door, saw her in tears, and got choked up myself. The salty water our bodies put out is one of the bitter reminders of reality. We talked for a few moments and she said she had the 11:30 funeral to get to at our church, South Hills Christian Church, for Glenna Foote. Then Dr. Flowers came down and said he was heading in to see Judy (Dr. Schmidt’s wife) to help her arrange funeral details and be general support. Dr. Lahustky and I went ahead of him while he waited for Lea.

Even though they left after us, Ron and Lea ended up getting to the hospital before us since Dr. L and I got stuck up with construction traffic on 8th St. We arrived at the top floor of the tower and saw Ron, Leah and Dr. Darren Middleton. Dr. Middleton was there with Judy and his family, who arrived yesterday afternoon. While we were all waiting in the floor’s lobby, Judy and her father-, sister- and brother-in-law were in with Daryl and the doctors. We were talking, trying to come up with something funny to say to numb our minds a little and waiting and seeing what would happen.

Then I saw a face in the window in the door. Judy and I made eye contact and with recognition came that glow she gets from surprise. She came through the door and we all got up and gave her hugs. She then was followed by Daryl’s dad, Arnie, who came through the door, shook our hands, gave hugs, and was telling of “how proud we are of our boy!” No kidding. Talk about the understatement of the century!

Dr. L and I, seeing the doctors were out as well, took a moment and snuck in. Little did I know how I would react. When I first opened the door to his room I had to mentally double-check that it was the correct room. There were a man and woman standing who I’d never met (found out it was his sister and his brother-in-law) and then a man in the bed. It took an additional second for me to register the fact that the man in the bed was him, my mentor.

Dr. Lahutsky and I walked over to the bed, she took his right hand, I took his left, and we talked. She told him how she’d come to say goodbye to her neighbor and friend. They’d shared adjacent offices in the department for almost 20 years. Then he did something that still rips out the tears. He lifted the hand she was holding, motioned to me, and said to her: “he cooked my last supper.” Oh gosh; I lost it right there. There’s nothing worse than your New Testament professor saying that. I looked at his jaundiced body and his yellowed eyes and held his hand. Dr. Lahutsky asked if he wanted others to come and he shook his head and said, “I don’t want them to feel like they have to.” Sometimes I think there can be so much humility in a person that it’s wasted. There was no place we’d rather be and he knew that. Then came his final phrase – one which will serve as a guide to everything for me. Still holding my hand, he looked up at me and said “carry on.” We walked out of the room, trying not to let the signs of our grief slip back into his door.

I’ve gone through the rest of my day almost paralyzed. Dr. L and I made it back for the end of Glenna’s funeral and then a time afterwards in Dottie’s (our South Hills minister’s) office with her and fester. This afternoon I ended up covering the Religion Department office so Laurie, the Dept. secretary, could make a trip to the hospital.

Throughout the day the memories have been coming back. I’ve dissected his phrases a thousand times and the memories just add on top of each other. Perhaps the one that best fits with “carry on” is a candid conversation we had in his office. During my second year at TCU, he and I went to the Holocaust Remembrance week chapel service and then met in his office afterwards. While I was sitting at his round table he was busy over by his computer, getting something. He turned around and said, “Adam, that message that we just heard is why I still do what I do.” His witness — the reason he still professes — is one of peace. He teaches this area knowing full-well that many use it to justify discrimination, killing and war. He is a witness asking “what” and “why” and trudging through the crap that comes with “shock and awe.” How I wish we had him at our side as we try to get through this.

As of now, we don’t know what will happen. He’s on dialysis, his kidneys have shut down and it looks as if it’s just a matter of time. The one blessing I thank God for in all of this was the chance to say “Goodbye Friend.”

Swish-swish-swish. The sound knocked me out of my space-y haze and I looked down. It was dark, so I stopped and stood still while my eyes took a couple of seconds to adjust. Those precious few seconds were all that it took for the creature to decide I wasn’t an immediate threat and it was safe for it to scurry away.

I half-heartedly wish I could say this doesn’t happen often to me, but alas, it’s becoming more regular. Three weeks ago TCU started a program for Faculty and Staff: Frog Legs. For whoever signed up, that person worked with their department at tracking how much they walk — with the obvious connection of awareness stimulating improvement — by the use of pedometers. These pedometers, with the TCU Horned Frog logo and everything, show me just how little I walk during certain times at life.

Did you know that the least amount of activity I put my body through is while traveling? The first two weeks of the program I was visiting divinity schools and seminaries by flying and driving everywhere. I know what you’re thinking: the airports are where we get the most tired (well, besides the gym); it turns out that tiredness actually comes from the amount of carry-on bags and the g-forces from the take-offs and landings rather than the actual number of steps.

The places with the most pedometer activity: retreat centers! This is one of the bizarre paradoxes of life, but I walk more at the places where I sit and pray, think and read than I do for the process of moving around the globe. It was during my times at these retreat centers that I encountered the swishing creatures.

The first instance was last Friday night at my home church campgrounds in Newton, IA. I returned there last week after finishing my last divinity school visit and volunteered to help my parents and the other youth group sponsors and minister of my congregation with their middle school retreat. I was in charge of ice-breakers — (the guy living in Texas) — go figure. It was while the group was working on their Youth Sunday worship preparation that I walked from our cabin up to the main lodge to grab a sleeping bag for one of the adults who forgot one. I was trudging up and down the hills and lost in thought: about the events of the past two weeks, about the friends I missed and about the cold air starting to penetrate my jeans. Then came the sound. I looked down to the right at an opossum and chuckled. It flipped over, just five feet away from me, and scurried off down into a small creek bed. Leave to an opossum to play dead when I go that close.

The second instance was last Tuesday night when I was doing a spiritual retreat down in Lake Dallas, TX. I had just enjoyed a nice dinner and decided to go for a walk — down the stations of the cross and eventually following the driveway almost until it connected to the road. I made it there just as the sunset was fading away and I turned back and returned the way I came. Just when I was about to reach the retreat center I heard the sound and stopped. I looked down to my left. There, an armadillo took a second to look at me and then turned. It was four feet away, but it knew with its scaly shelled back towards me that it would be able to make it to safety. Its pace wasn’t a life-or-death frenzy, it was just fast enough to let me, or any other potential predator, know that it was out of the game.

Neither of these were spooky instances for me; if I had really bad blood-pressure neither would have likely caused enough stress to trigger a heart attack. They both, however, made me take a moment to stop. And together, they made me reflect even further.

Both instances had the same first reaction from both me and the creatures I’d never been closer to in my life. My first instinct, luckily (or else I might have missed it all), once I heard signs of their reactions was to stop and take a second to let my senses readjust for this new situation. Their reactions were to first play dead or uninterested until they gaged me. Both then turned and left me to go about what I was doing, just with them out of the picture.

I can only hope once I finalize my seminary/divinity school decision I don’t get the same reaction from many of those close to me. I may have those on my left show their shells and shut me out of their lives and I may have those on my right try to ignore me and then when they have the chance they may get as far away from me as possible. Either of those reactions are possible, and in a couple of cases likely; luckily, there’s often a sleeping bag or a pen and notebook ahead for when I continue the journey.

On the flip side, both instances (and probably those that will happen in the future) bring about more reflection on God, creation and my world external to myself. They take me out of the self-absorbed, introspective state and show me another previously hidden facet I can appreciate. I hope everyone gets these occasionally jarring moments that penetrate comfort zones only to cause more honest reflection.