The Waltonian

There’s a well-known poem (“The Dash”) that highlights the importance of a person’s dash; that is, the little, often unnoticed, line in-between the year of someone’s birth and death. It’s one’s dash that really matters. The last stanza of the poem is telling:

“So, when your eulogy is being read

With your life’s actions to rehash

Would you be proud of the things they say

About how you spent your dash? (Linda Ellis, “The Dash,” 1996)

I would like to briefly reflect on what I’ll call “Doc’s Dash,” and note two ways he spent his dash at our University. The first was his passion for his work at Sodexo and the care and love he had for our students, his colleagues, and the hundreds of student workers that Doc supervised during his twenty-one years. Doc relished the title “Floor General” as he supervised the ebb-and flow of activities in our Dining Commons. He was a “larger-than-life” figure on campus. Doc was hard working, frequently demanding, often playful with a keen sense of humor and story-telling and sometimes, in moments of emotional spontaneity, very colorful language.

Doc’s other passion was his love of fishing. He could chat for hours about the art and science of fishing, how to properly untangle a fishing reel, how to scrape barnacles from a boat. And as I listened to Doc, this was all new to me given that I grown up in New York City and the only two types of fish I knew about were frozen fish from the supermarket and tuna fish in a can.

Doc knew just about everything about fishing. He even once started a fishing club for students at the University. Rumors have it that the club would have been more successful if students were able to wake up before sunrise to join Doc fishing.

The second way Doc spent his dash was his friendship with me, which deepened when he received the devastating diagnosis of brain cancer Ωver a year ago. Cancer compels us all to think about two things we rarely ponder: (1) our mortality and (2) whether we can reconcile God with our suffering. Doc’s faith grew not by the denial of his mortality but by a deeper understanding of it and his willingness to try to understand God in the midst of his suffering.

Early on when Doc stopped by my office to update me about his medical progress, I asked him if he had any favorite prayers that we could pray together. He said bluntly, “I know only one prayer, Joe, The Lord’s Prayer. Is that good enough?” I noted that it wasn’t just good enough, it was the perfect one. We then prayed The Lord’s Prayer together each time we met. The phrase “Thy will be done” always seemed to resonate with Doc every time we recited this prayer.

Doc courageously embraced this cancer because he loved his job and loved his family.

In the final days of his life, Doc was able to attend his daughter’s wedding and was able to leave this world with dignity and a sense of peace. His wife Barb modeled well the part of their marriage vow “Until death do us part.” We are grateful for that loving example.

It is a mystery why some of us get more years to live than others. I’m the University Chaplain, who has studied the Bible for a long time and I still don’t know why. But I do know that the mystery of faith can give us hope for something more than this temporal existence here on earth. We certainly wanted to have Doc around for many more years. Yet I sense that our memories and faith will keep him with us t in many ways. May Doc rest in peace and may his memory be a blessing to us all. Amen.

In the spring of 2013, I had a sudden and scary bout with atrial fibrillation (“a-fib”). A “bout” might be understating it a bit: I passed out during a March faculty meeting while then-president David Black was speaking. I’m still grateful for all the faculty that initially assisted me. An ambulance was called, and I was quickly placed on a stretcher and sent to a local ER.

It was many hours before I returned home. There were seemingly countless medical tests and procedures: IVs, EKGs, blood work, blood pressure, medical questions, a review of family history, etc. When my wife brought me home later in the evening, I slowly walked through the doorway and I noticed a blinking red light on the cordless phone. I thought: “Who left a voice mail message?” Here it is almost word-for-word:

“Hello, Joe. Dwight Peterson here. What do you think you’re doing collapsing at a faculty meeting! Hey, remember I’m the one who’s really sick. I’ll be praying for you. Hope to see you soon, Joe.”

Dr. Dwight Peterson was placed in hospice care in August 2012, after teaching at Eastern for 15 years.

That 20-second voicemail message captures well the life and enduring legacy of Dr. Dwight Peterson: caring, humorous, and hospitable. It’s interesting to note the etymology of the word “hospitality” with words like hospital, host, and especially hospice.

Dwight, Margaret, and Mark extended to me and so many others the gift of hospitality through our visits, and through reading Dr. Margaret Kim Peterson’s entries on the Caring Bridge website. It was a gift extended from Jesus Christ himself each and every time. For that we are forever grateful.

I had a ritual—along with many others—of visiting Dwight, Margaret, and Mark each week. My day and time was locked-in on Friday afternoons at 4 p.m.—often accompanied by my good friend and former faculty member, Dr. Chris Hall.

The ritual was simple. For my visit, I would bring a grande no-foam latte and some treats from Starbucks to share with Dwight. It was nothing spectacular. Just coffee and cookies. But there was a sacredness to it. Almost sacramental as we drank and ate together each week. I would often joke that we were celebrating in some ways the sacrament of Holy Communion.

These weekly visits were both life-giving and mysterious. Life-giving, because although I knew I was visiting a dear dying friend, it never felt morbid, depressing or hopeless. I left with a stronger sense of what it means to live life abundantly now by following Jesus. What an enduring legacy. And it was also very mysterious, because quite frankly, as my colleague Dr. Wendy Mercier noted to me before the funeral service, “Remember Joe, Dwight failed hospice care!” I then quickly responded, “Wendy, it was probably his only failing grade he ever received.” What a mystery. But it is in that mystery that we discover the deep gift of Christian hope available to all of us.

Eastern University’s continuing prayers, love, and support are with Margaret, Mark, and the entire Peterson family.

What a privilege also during my visits to get to know Dwight’s extended family—his wonderful parents, Marlyce and Norm; his terrific siblings, Bonnie and Kurt; Margaret’s parents, relatives, friends, cousins, former students; and so many others from so many places.

Two final observations: Margaret, your love for Dwight was simply saintly. You didn’t just co-author a book on Christian marriage; you lived it unabashedly. We all noticed it and we are deeply indebted to you for that loving example.

And Mark, your love for your Dad was just what it needed to be. He was so proud of you, and he often tearfully told me he wanted to live as long as he could to see you grow up. And in many ways, he has.

Many have kindly asked: “So Joe, how are you doing?” It’s a question that I continue to think about. But in recent days, I may now know how to respond: “I’ll shed a tear Fridays at 4 p.m.”