at. (the) lake. skiing.
Duke and Marguerite took us water-skiing on Kentucky’s Cumberland Lake, where, as a child, I watched my father rise from the wake and rule the waters, my shivering hand waving through the spray from my plump orange vest. After dinner at Duke and Marguerite’s house, I played Kick the Can with their older, crush-inducing sons, and caught fireflies in the dark. When Mother went in the hospital, my brother and I were invited for dinner in their palatial home. I dressed in a best frilly dress, David in a coat and clip tie, and we held hands to knock at their tall imposing doors.
Duke was my father’s boss, mentor, colleague, and finally, always, friend. He died this week at the age of 98.
Separated for years after their teamwork as President and Provost of a seminary, they still found their way toward each other in yearly meetings, voluminous correspondence, intellectual pursuits. After my father’s diagnosis five years ago, Duke was too old to travel, and my father no longer enjoyed the freedom of the road; they simply couldn’t see each other for a final gathering up of their shared life. So, Duke took to calling once a week. Even after my father’s voice gave out, Duke called to talk to Mother, and let his voice reach over the phone and grab my father by the shoulder in an embrace.
I wonder how my father takes this loss into himself. So many of his lifelong friends have now gone on, leaving him here to witness their lives as a whole. The ones to whom he might have whispered doubts or fears, or conjured the past, or sighed about what is gone. Grady, John, Tom, Duke, not to mention his dear wife of sixty years. Others he loves are far away, and no longer able to travel, and the phone is a weak link for one who cannot speak.
I think that we all long for a witness to our lives. Marriage does that, offers a lens which makes it possible, as Rilke put it, for each to see the other whole against the sky. Friendship that endures does that. Gives the gift of seeing your life whole, flawed and unfinished, but somehow complete. It is a gift, indeed: to be not alone in knowing ourselves, but to be seen, beginning and end, and in that seeing, loved.
So, I wonder what it is like to lose your witnesses. Difficult, I am wagering. And so I write to my father, in hearing of Duke’s death: I will be your witness. Younger, yes, and not carrying the whole of you, and yet, I can witness you witnessing your friends – the arc of their lives, rising from the wake and ruling the waters, and then sinking back into their depths. I can do that. And remember with you. The fireflies caught. The dinners blessed. The night skies.
Susan
Stephanie
A Still Life...A Life Still 
Wonderful summing up of a strategic loss–to your father, to your family, to the faithful, to the world. Thank you, Susan.
dear, dear one! thank you for sharing. i am enjoying your dad’s new book on the Lord’s Prayer and have bought it for my family – my brother and one of george’s dear friends. God is good! to be able to share Bill’s learned thoughts with us is such a blessing to our lives. he’s remarkable and God is not through with him yet. much love, p
Each time I read your postings, dear Susan, I am moved to tears by your awesome ability to touch my heart with your descriptions that evoke deep feelings of love, empathy, connection, both sadness and joy, and more. Thank you so much. I loved reading your reference to John along with Grady, Tom, Duke and your Mom. They were blessed indeed by the love of your Dad who “witnessed their lives as a whole.” I am blessed that John brought you and your family into my life and that we are still each other’s witnesses. All love, Ann
Susan: Thank you for sending this. I have shared it with some “witnesses” in my own life. Wanted you to know, also, that you and your father were part of the discussion in our SS class this morning on women. I go to Baptist Church of the Covenant. Sarah Jackson Shelton is our pastor, and your father well acquainted with our church. In fact, he has spoken there.
Jack
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Thank you, Jack, and for letting me know about your class discussion. I’m grateful.
Dear Susan,
The very question you raise shows depths of compassion in you. It’s a question like everything you write that leads to fruitful reflection and more mindful living. Once again – my loving thank you! Elaine
Susan, you share your father’s gifts for spiritual insight and artful eloquence, and your posts always stir me. This one particularly hits home because his aloneness now is so poignant in that this most articulate man’s voice is silenced so severely. And his condition makes those of us who visit so pained and discouraged about coming by just when he most needs us to at least regularly lend him our presence as his supportive circle shrinks. Thank you. Rod
Beautiful writing. Beautiful photo. How much love you express. Poppo