Beauty in connection, life and death

The following is strange.  It's random.  It is possibly offensive.  But it's as true as anything I've written.

I was having a truly awful day.  I was lost in my own world, I was angry at everyone, and my multitude of neuroses and mental illnesses were working in full force.

I arrived early at the chapel for the hymn sing that would open the conference, and picked an out-of-the-way seat in the fourth row with plenty of room around me for my friends to find me.  The singing began, and I tried my best to follow along, though while the Mennonites use the same hymnal as us, they tend to pick different songs.

My fellow Bethany students wandered in.  I glanced in their direction, hoping to catch their eye, but they didn't see me; they sat on the other side of the room, laughing amongst themselves, celebrating the dinner they'd had together--the dinner I'd missed for a previously-arranged one with my parents.

I felt abandoned.  Rejected.  Alone.  And worst of all, everyone could see that I was alone.  I stuck out, the one person in a room full of Anabaptists with no friends or family, with no ability to connect to others.  The loser.

This is what I mean when I talk about mental illnesses.

I became less and less interested in the songs, my voice fading into a quieter and quieter tone.  After a few minutes, a woman involved in the conference came up behind me and tapped me on the shoulder.

"We're trying to get people to fill the front rows," she told me.  "Would you mind moving up?"  I told her I would not.

I was furious.  Not only was I a leper, now I was being chastised for it, asked to rectify the situation as if it was my fault I was all alone.  I seriously considered just leaving.  Fuck this hymn sing.

I moved sideways to a section of seating that was more populated.  By now, though, my last shred of sanity was gone.  I numbly opened the hymnal and accompanying book to the appropriate songs, but I stared straight ahead, no longer even pretending to sing.  My mind left my body to sit there, catatonic.

I was jolted to attention by a man moving aggressively into the chair next to me and offering his hand.  Great, I thought, now I have to pretend to be interested in meeting someone new.

It was Stan Noffsinger.

I've never been out for drinks and deep conversation with Stan, but he always addresses me by name and has always been a friendly and engaging person.  While I never would have predicted this reaction to him, I felt my anger and resistance melt a little.  Desperately, I clung to familiarity.  He was safe.  I was safe.  All was not well, but with Stan there I could at least survive to the end of worship.

We sang a song, then Stan turned to me and asked, "Did you hear about Art Gish?"  I felt a hint of fear creep into my chest.  I told him I hadn't.  "He was killed today," Stan said.  "He was working on his farm and his tractor flipped and pinned him."

"Oh, no," I said.  I wanted to say "oh, God," but this was the general secretary of the Church of the Brethren, and I was uncertain of his position on breaking commandments.

Instantly, I was cured.  This tragic news was the slap in the face that brought me out of my own, small world, and re-connected me to what was real.  Suddenly I could feel the love of those around me in worship.  The connection to Stan strengthened.  Just then the music started for the next song, and now I sang loud and clear.  This was my worship, my celebration.  For Art.  For life.  For the joy I felt in the community in which I stood.

I did not know Art personally, though I think I met him a few times.  In life I admired his work, but I never got the opportunity to connect to him as a person.  In the moment I learned of his death, though, he gave me the gift of connection when I was at one of my lowest points.  Art Gish, the peacemaker, brought peace to my heart.


I know this is a strange reaction to have at the news of someone's death--especially the death of someone who was such an amazing gift to the world.  It is self-centered and short-sighted and possibly evidence that I am a sociopath.  But that is my story of Art's gift to me.

Rest in peace.