THE PAIN OF DELETING
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One of the computer keys I seem to hit most often is the one
that says “delete.” I use it mostly on my own material. That kind of a deletion
is usually a good thing.
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What makes for pain is when I’m fixing
my mailing lists. I’m not very secretarial in the first place, but even if
I were, deleting from my mailing lists is a pain.
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Since it is rare that someone voluntarily
requests to be deleted, a deletion usually means that there has been a death
among my colleagues and friends. The delete key is pressed, but not without
pain.
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Most of my address changes are made in
the fall when the blue sheet gets restarted. It is not unusual for one or
two of the first mailings to be returned with news I had not previously known.
I find myself missing their names when I apply the labels.
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In front
of me I have labels stuck to the edge of my computer shelf as reminders of
new deletes. I see Art and Eileen Olson, a great couple you probably don’t
know but might wish you had. Another name is Dennis Savage. His death notice
came to me first through the Pension Fund Bulletin. I read it each month
with its reporting of clergy retirements and deaths. It is rare that I don’t
know one or more.
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The most recent delete was for Robert
Lemon. He and Dennis, and another of their classmates at the Divinity School
at the University of Chicago, Bill Terbeek, participated in one another’s
weddings. They were all bright, creative and successful clergy. I met them
all over 50 years ago when I was part of Robert and Adelle’s wedding.
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With each delete my mind turns on the
history channel. It is surprising what memories come on to the screen. And
thoughts.
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For instance, Robert and Adelle’s romance,
when he came to Seattle while I was a student at the University of Washington
and active in the University Christian Church. He came to court Adelle in
what was essentially a done deal. He left his church in Illinois and pumped
gas during the courtship before taking her off when they got married. We’ve
been in touch ever since.
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A lot happens in a half century. We never
heard the half of it, but had the outline by way of Christmas letters, in
between notes and occasional visits. So we knew of Robert’s Parkinson’s condition.
We had times with them from its early stages. It’s a relentlessly cruel
disease. Those who live with it have to be courageous. I marvel at both courage
and grace. Like others I know, Robert kept on with things he cared about
as he was able. I saw him at a lectureship where he excused himself to a
padded pew in the balcony for a quick nap. But he returned when he was refreshed,
totally interested in what was going on. He remained interested and concerned
and a bit angry over the “war” and injustice in the world. I bet he was sending
off letters to the end.
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Aging under any circumstances takes courage
and some humor. People in Robert’s situation who maintain their interest and
connection to life and the world are models for all of us. I told Adelle that
we’d be in Berkeley for his memorial celebration. I think I need to be encouraged
by him one more time.
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His close life-long friends, Bill and
Dennis had their own stories of approaching the end of their lives. Each of
us eventually has such a story. If we can accept our fate as humans without
losing the belief that our lives matter in ways beyond our knowing, and that
simply being alive in this amazing universe of 100 billion galaxies is a wonder
beyond understanding.
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I’m told that even though I delete from
my computer file, the name never goes away. I don’t understand computers any
more than I understand the universe. I too delete, but do not forget.
─ Art Morgan, October 25, 2007
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