Clyde

Clyde was a short, read-headed, freckle-faced professor of speech when I met him at college. A the time, was my Speech 101 professor, who cut me no slack. I mean none. Ever. He knew I was headed for seminary to be a Methodist minister. He made sure I didn’t have what he called “the ministerial tone” in my speeches. His concern was more than my having an unseemly veneer; he meant to make me a good student.

Working my way through college, I cleaned bathrooms and did groundskeeping at a state park, was a go-fer in an Auto Parts store. ran a steam press in a pants factory—on the night shift, drove a school bus, a church bus, and served in the Army National Guard,(not in that order nor all at the same time). Clyde took me on as his assistant in the college Speech Department, which helped with my tuition costs. When he and his wife, divorced, I baby-sat his two little girls while he taught night school.

I came to realize that Clyde meant business about making me a good student. One night I stayed all night for a fraternity frivolity, and slept in the next morning, missing his 8:00 a.m. class. I got a Zero for the day! Despite our close working relationship and my having been through four of his classes, he cut me no slack. It stung, but taught me about integrity. Even though we had a close relationship, he preserved a professional perimeter.

Life, family, and graduate school (doctoral studies, this time) figured into my having lost touch with Clyde. Ten years ago, he called me. Once we were reconnected, we visited by phone often. I learned that not only had he earned his Ph. D., but also authored several academic books. In retirement, he continued a sort of mini-vaudeville or rubber-chicken circuit. I was not surprised, because he loved folk singing and entertaining with his guitar. It kept him lively.

Not long after one of our phone visits, Clyde had a severe stroke, losing most of the use of his right side. He had to give up his guitar, keyboard, and on-stage performing. Nevertheless, he kept his great attitude, funny, positive, and often hyperbolic tales, for good measure. When Clyde died, Liz, his wife, told a very affirming message he left for me. I saw that his being hard on me was his way of deeply caring.

Friendship is a treasure. True friendship is something like a ship; when in port there are all kinds of activity. When the ship sails, it is out of sight, and maybe out of contact. But when the ship returns—reconnects, all activity resumes. I think of Jesus and his friends at Bethany. He knew they were always there. He knew he could always count on them. And they could count on him. Remember, when his friend Lazarus fell ill, his family called on Jesus to come cure him.

On another occasion, six days before the Passover, when Jesus faced his final and most devastating encounter, he went to his friends in Betany. He knew he would be received, loved, and find comfort for his soul. That’s the way it is with friends. You knock on the door, and inside a place is made for you at the table; abundant, or sparse, there is always enough for you.

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 202