Goodbye Friend

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.”