Remembering a Friend

and reflecting on the (in?)significance of our creative contributions

Photo by Julia Joppien

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Mr. Nelson was an English, film, and humanities professor at my local community college.

He was “a bit eccentric, but really nice,” as one student described him.

I had him for modern humanities. I learned about Kierkegaard, Flannery O'Connor, and Sartre from him. He would stand at the front of the room and lecture on and on about existentialism, minimalist art, and (in my opinion) ugly architecture (or was it furniture?). He talked about post-war alienation, absurdity, and society's collective loss of faith. I was both drawn and repelled; I was in the middle of a spiritual crisis. I had that REM song “Losing My Religion” running through my mind half the time as I walked the depressingly circular halls of the community college.

Though society had perhaps lost its faith—though we were all suffering from some collective alienation--Mr. Nelson himself was a Christian. I knew this by the way he talked about Kierkegaard and Flannery O'Connor and by the way he said “God bless” to us every Thursday night as we filed out of class into our dark, alienated lives.

He was a kindly man. A good listener. And so that one time when I ran into him in the cafeteria, I gave him an earful of my spiritual angst. I thought he would understand my dilemma, having studied Kierkegaard, etc. He listened patiently. He didn't pretend to have the answers. He stood there a long time, holding his books, nodding his head, saying “mhm, mhmmm,”

He was encouraging. He saw his students' gifts and good qualities and publicly praised them in the classroom. He had high (but fair) standards, gave copious feedback on tests and papers.

Sometime after the class was over, I saw him again by chance when I was performing music at a local coffee shop. He liked my songs and compared me to the Beatles. He invited me to play at his humanities class.

We stayed in touch; we became friends. I read his stories and poems. We went to poetry open mics together with a few other friends. He came over for Thanksgiving dinner a time or two.

We talked politics, religion, literature, art. He had pretty specific theories about things. He referenced lots of films I had never seen, comparing them to other films I had never seen (am not a big movie watcher). We didn't always agree about things. I think I may have hurt his feelings once or twice.

But he was always—unfailingly—kind.

I called him once or twice when I was deeply discouraged; he encouraged me.

He kept tabs on my spiritual journey and rejoiced with me when I began to find my way out of spiritual confusion and despondency and toward a joyful hope in God.

Then, when I moved away, I never saw him again.

But I followed him on Facebook and watched his life unfold in a rather distressing way. He had health problems. He lost his job. He had financial problems. He became disabled. For a while, it was one difficulty after another.

Once, I saw that my friend was being harassed on Facebook, over—of all things—Mr. Rogers. (My friend was pro-Mr. Rogers; the other guy was anti-.)

As I sat there on the couch, watching this, I felt that the Holy Spirit was nudging me: “Encourage Mr. Nelson.”

So I wrote some encouraging, positive things on his Facebook both about my friend and about Mr. Rogers. Then the Anti-Mr.-Rogers came after me. I shut him down with a couple stanzas of Amazing Grace I found on YouTube.

I gave Mr. Nelson my contact info before I got off Facebook for good, and he began calling me from time to time. I must confess I didn't always return his calls, and most certainly not in a timely manner. He always seemed to understand that I was busy and wasn't offended.

This past spring we talked for a little while. He'd been writing furiously, every day, at the library. He was nearly done writing all the things he needed to write, he told me. But he worried about what would become of his writings when he was gone. He hadn't been commercially successful. Not even moderately. Not even modestly. He had self-published a book of short stories, and—as far as I know—that's it. Everything else was on a thumb drive, or something, or perhaps in stacks of papers and three-ring binders in his apartment.

I told him, “That's the kind of thing you have to leave in God's hands. That's something you just have little control over.”

Three weeks later, a mutual friend called and told me he had passed away.

* * *

The next week I was sitting at the piano, preparing for an upcoming worship service. I was playing Fanny Crosby's “Near the Cross.” While I played and sang the song, I had a mental image of Mr. Nelson standing with Jesus, high on a hill, far away. He was joyful. He was waving at me. He was free from all the sorrow and disappointment and difficulties and health problems that plagued him during his life.

* * *

I wonder what happens on the other side. While I don't believe in a literal purgatory, I think there is a kind of purgation that we experience: All the things we did that are of little value to God—the wood, hay, and stubble—are burned up, while the gold, silver, and precious jewels remain (1 Cor. 3:12-15). As a writer—and a limited human who sometimes thinks too concretely—I wonder about my friend's writings, languishing in abandoned Word documents or stacks of three-ring binders in a box somewhere. Do these writings somehow have an alternative existence on the other side? Or are they among the things burned up with the wood, hay, and stubble?

Or are they a gift to Jesus alone? Something that he holds in his hands, or lovingly stores in a box the way I store my children's drawings and writings?

I wonder if, when my friend crossed “the River,” as Fanny Crosby put it, all his misconceptions about himself—and more importantly, his misconceptions about God--were cleared up in a moment? Because, as the apostle John said, “When He appears, we shall be like him, for we shall see Him as He is.”

In the end, it isn't my friend's talent or artistic contributions that I honor in my memory of him, but his kindness and goodness.

More importantly, Christ remembers him. “Therefore whoever confesses Me before men, him I will also confess before My Father who is in heaven” (Matt. 10:32).

For those of us who are creative types, I wonder what Christ will commend in our works, when we see Him. The answer is fuzzy to me because of my unspirituality. It's kind of like WWJD: I don't really know what Jesus would do in any given situation, and I don't exactly know what He thinks of me and the things I create.

Come to think of it, I don’t know exactly what He thinks about anything I do. Like Paul, I cannot accurately judge myself. My own motives are opaque to me, at best.

But the more I read His word, the more I come to believe that He is pleased with childlike faith. With audacious trust and hope. With a confident appropriation of His mercy, along with a life of fruitful repentance. With joyful expectation of good, even in the darkest times.

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of God.