CHRIST
IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a Place of Winter for the Years of Winter…
©
I was in the car when I got the word from Judith Unger
that G.L. Story had died. A Chad Mitchell Trio album was playing, as always after
Helen has been in the car. The next words I heard after “I just learned that
G.L. died last night” were “I don’t look much like a lover…” Mike Kobluk was singing
the beautiful Adios, Mi Corazon.
The one thing you need to know about Geoffrey L. Story is
this: he was a lover. That will sound strange in this time and culture. G.L.
did not fit the image of what we call a lover.
G.L. was not physically imposing. He did not have a big
personality. He did not fill up a room when he entered it, but was quite able
to sit in a corner and not be noticed. He was not an exuberant professor, nor
an oft-published scholar. He was a quiet, well-mannered, farm boy from
Beauregard, Alabama, which he pronounced as Borregard.
After Birmingham-Southern College, he spent almost his
whole life in Illinois, as a graduate student at Garrett Theological Seminary
and Northwestern University, and as a Religion professor at Illinois Wesleyan
University.
But this is the one thing you need to know about G.L.
Story: he was a lover.
He loved his children and grandchildren. He loved his
friends and colleagues. He loved learning and scholarship. He loved The New
Testament. He loved mochas at Barnes & Noble. He loved books and movies.
Most of all, he loved his wife. For 61 years.
Helen and I visited G.L. and Bettie in the spring of
2014. They asked us to stay for supper. Their health was not good, and we did
not want to put extra pressure on them, but their lovely and beloved helper,
Kay Lynn, had left a jello salad for them, and they had some leftovers, and
Helen and Bettie bustled around in the kitchen, in that special way that older
ladies bustle, and put a delightful meal on the table, while I helped G.L. with
his walker and oxygen cord as we maneuvered our way to the dining room. Bettie
was the last to arrive at the table. Before she got seated, G.L. looked up at
her and, I think with no awareness that anyone else was even present, said to
her, with total adoration, “I love you so much.” She smiled that little smile
and said, “I know you do.’
It never occurred to us then, I think to anybody, that
G.L. would ever have to get along without Bettie, that she would die first.
That’s what happened, though. G.L. continued to be his kind, loving self, but
he didn’t have much reason to go on.
G.L. did not set the world on fire, but he tended so well
the fire around which his wife and family and friends gathered for warmth
against the uncaring of the world. If there is a life to come, the one thing
you need to know about G.L.’s place in it is this: G.L. will be there as a
lover.
Adios, mi Corazon…
John
Robert McFarland
johnrobertmcfarland@gmail.com
The
“place of winter” mentioned in the title line is Iron Mountain, in Michigan’s
Upper Peninsula [The UP], where life is defined by winter even in the summer!
[This phrase is explained in the post for March 20, 2014.]
I
tweet as yooper1721.
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