Elegy

When Ev and I were 26 we moved beyond United States boundaries to Norway. We had with us our 14-month-old son David (Jon would be born three years later in that oh so special country), a thirst for new adventures and the fire in our bellies to become great educators, the teachers we wanted to be. And within a week, we had met so many others like ourselves, green and young and excited, as well as a few people old enough to be our parents, but still excited nonetheless.  And we knew we had made the right decision. Within two weeks, we began to recognize the wisdom and life experience in some of those our parents’ age, and we realized that all the young teacher energy, all of the young teacher synergy, could not hold a candle to the force that was one of those couples, John and Ruth.

I’m not sure what it was exactly, but I think our respective families would say that we fell into each others’ lives at just the right time. Always respectful, always mindful and full of enthusiasm, John and Ruth became to us the parents and grandparents we ached for so far away, and likewise we became the children and grandchildren close by, when their own children were equally distant as our families. If that were the end of it, it would have been a beautiful narrative, a time together defined by circumstance and geography and travel and adventure. But there was something else between us, something that allowed us to turn each other free from living in a place we all had come to love, to living in new places that we knew we could share in some endeavor greater than what we had known before.

You see, in our story, we were meant to find John and Ruth, to interweave our lives with theirs off and on but always keeping track.   Each of them brought something special to any situation shared. John loved a good story, good food and good company. Ruth brought an eye for the beautiful, an ear for that which was the most lovely in human interaction, and most of all a sensibility that every moment would be a special moment if we just paid attention. I could speak of each of them for hours, but at this time I need to focus on Ruth, beautiful and sensitive and grounded Ruth.

There are so many things that I could say about Ruth. I know that for every story I would tell, sons and daughters and friends and neighbors and acquaintances and first timers would nod knowingly, eyes lighting with the joy of being in her presence, inspired to share other stories a hundred and a hundred times over. I will share two, knowing that there are thousands.

When we lived in Egypt, John and Ruth  visited us at our home. I have never seen any one person wring so much out of one week in one place as Ruth in Cairo. One of our friends had concocted a 24 hour Sinai tour that he would give for the not so faint of heart, and he and Ev decided to take John and Ruth out on this grueling, no sleep circuit. It began at St. Catherine’s monastery at the base of Mount Sinai. One would awaken to be on the paths by 2:30 AM so that the sunrise could be experienced from the top of the mountain. On their way back down, Ruth was stopped by a man from Japan who asked her politely her age. When she told him she was 66, he just shook his head as if to say, “how could I ever possibly keep up with someone so fit?” What he didn’t know was that two hours later Ruth and John would be snorkeling in the Red Sea and then taking time out in the desert looking at rock formations. And as we all know, Ruth’s hiking only got better with age.

A second story is a little more personal. When Ev and I were in our third year in Norway, Ev miscarried. We were devastated. In came the community led by Ruth, not so much to make it right or to offer any kind of silly observations like, “God must’ve really wanted that baby,” but instead just to offer company and attention and a meal and assurance that while we were disappointed and sad, it would get better.  I know there are much more special stories about Ruth – stories of invitations into homes of people she had just met, stories of friendships maintained over years and years and years in Libya, stories of parties and gatherings that were so right that one could only marvel at the woman who had thought through the remarkable detail of these social occasions, and most of all, stories of a woman in love with the Middle East. But the Ruth I know is the Ruth who understands the joy of being, that sometimes being is all we’ve got, and that is a powerful story.

I suppose that there is nothing I could relate that would add to this beautiful story of Ruth except that she taught me how to keep a sense of wonder, to be brave in times where self-consciousness ruled, to value the beauty in the individual human no matter who he or she was. Ruth encouraged me to be grounded, feet firmly planted in my history both good and bad. Ruth cheered me to soar with wings opened to the sun and wind and rain of life’s wellspring. Ruth could laugh in a way that lifted my heart, and two sentences later cry tears tinged with the joy of  life fully lived. And she freely gave the knowledge of just how one does that — so that I learned to laugh in a way that lifted my own heart and to cry tears that told me that life lived in wonder and awe was my privilege.

After I was diagnosed with ALS, John and Ruth were two of the first people we called. I loved how matter of fact they were, how easy they were to talk with, how they focused on a healing future, how they wrapped their prayers around Ev and me. After our first visit at Mayo in which my diagnosis was confirmed, we scooted over to La Crosse to see them. And there was Ruth with a special meal, a place of warmth, healing for the unhealable, with laughter in the face of fear, and with tears that soothed confusion in reassurance that love is greater than all things.

And this is the most important thing that Ruth’s life teaches me. She was and is and always will be the greatest reassurance, that love stands when all else falls, that love is present when presence is remote, that love is the best way, the only way to reach out beyond the confusion of what it means to be human, that love is the holiness humans are granted in proof of God.

When Ev and I were 26, and we moved to Norway in search of the great adventure, we never believed that the great adventure would be eternal love shared, but that was our discovery.  And for us Ruth will always be that eternal love.

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7 thoughts on “Elegy

  1. Beautiful. May we all be so fortunate to have a “Ruth” in our lives.
    Bruce, you are not alone…isn’t it comforting to know that we are all with you and that you lived your life with such gusto and grace? Your shared thoughts are an inspiration. Well done Ruth!

  2. Bruce-The gift of friendship, love, laughter and a passion for life were all great gifts that were shared freely by your friend, Ruth. These great gifts have now been weaved into your own life and are now a part of who you are. Her gifts are carried on through you by your gift of communication through your writing and communication. I like to think that Ruth was your earth angel and that you are ours. Thanks for sharing all your great gifts with us and helping to enrich others. Your that shining star and that ray of sunshine that people need in their lives. Debbie

  3. Yoga on Friday, didn’t attend, but missed you both. Elegy – “The elements of a traditional elegy mirror three stages of loss. First, there is a lament, where the speaker expresses grief and sorrow, then praise and admiration of the idealized dead, and finally consolation and solace”. How wonderful your understanding and ability to communicate it so poetically so that we can take away from it! I pray for your solace and perseverance for more postings, Brian

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