In Memoriam

I never knew Howard Fisher. I probably I saw him around campus-- I don't think I could have missed him, from what I've heard-- but I don't remember ever meeting him. The first time I really remember anything about Howard was at the end of winter break. I got an email. Some kid named Howard Fisher was sick, and needed prayer. I kind of brushed it off, but then another email came. And another. And another. Howard just kept getting sicker, his situation became more dire.

Eventually, I discovered that many of my friends knew him. He was the captain of the Montreat soccer team, and well-loved by every person who'd ever crossed paths with him. I thought back, but couldn't remember this person who everyone described to me: tall, black Jamaican, always smiling, often laughing, very loving and loveable.

And then, last Wednesday, I came into the biology classroom and saw one of the athletes just leaving. He didn't look so good. I wondered if he was sick. One of my friends, John, hugged him and gave him an encouraging pat on the back.

"It'll be okay," John said quietly.

"Yeah," the athlete whispered, and slowly made his way out of the room.

I looked at John questioningly. "Howie died," he murmured.

Howie... Howard? Howard Fisher? But we'd just prayed for him in New Testament class the day before! He seemed on the road to recovery! That... that wasn't fair! My eyes threatened to fill with tears.

Dr. Daniel was very grave at the front of the classroom. He had us come to the front of the room and stand in a circle. He said the Native Americans had a tradition when they received bad news. They would gather the tribe in a circle and place those most concerned in the middle, so they could receive the news and immediately have loving support all around them. We did that then. Sarah, a girl also from New Hampshire, and a boy I didn't know well came to the center of the circle. They had obviously already heard the news, because there were tears in both their eyes. Dr. Daniel related the news for the benefit of the ignorant: Howard Fisher had passed away at 7:10 that morning. More eyes filled with tears, including mine.

The people nearest Sarah and the other boy came out of the circle and held them and laid hands on their shoulders, and the rest of us held hands as Dr. Daniel prayed for Howard's family and for those left grieving at Montreat.

I started to cry then, tears sliding down my cheeks. But that didn't make sense! I hadn't even known Howard-- I couldn't possibly be crying because I'd just experienced a loss. And I don't just cry at everything. I almost pride myself on my relatively homeostatic emotions. So... why? But then I looked at Sarah and the soccer players in the classroom and knew why I wept. Somehow, inexplicably, though I could never pick up on my friends emotions at any other time, I was empathizing. I wept for Sarah and the soccer team, for Howard's friends and those who had been touched by him, the people he had to leave behind.

"Weep with those who weep; mourn with those who mourn." I subconsciously acted upon this verse that day. I embraced my roommate as she wept for the sunshiny young man who'd always had an encouraging word for her.

I put my arms around another girl who sat in the chapel pew, her shoulders shaking. There was literally a puddle on the floor between her feet, where her tears fell.

"He... he was just too young!" she gasped. Tears spilled down my own face at that. It just wasn't fair.

The girl calmed down soon after I came to her, while I was left relatively distraught. I began to wonder if my spiritual role that day was an emotional intercessor. It made sense: I had no emotions of my own really attached to this tragedy, so I was able and willing to alleviate the grief of others by taking some of their pain. It was an interesting idea, and I still haven't figured out if that was really the case.

The pain at Montreat has dulled a little, I think, and celebrations have been held to remember Howard and his enormous smile. Every now and then, though, I still get tears in my eyes. I'm still empathizing. It's a novelty, but I'm willing to get used to it, if that is how I can best serve the body of Christ where I am now. I am reminded of the words to a song I like to sing sometimes:

"Here I am, Lord. Is I, Lord?
I have heard you calling in the night.
I will go, Lord, if you lead me.
I will hold your people in my heart."