See You Later, Malcolm

Last week I got the unexpected and very sad news that my friend Malcolm had died.

Most of you who read this blog don't know Malcolm, but I bet you would have loved him as we all did, had you met him. This is my opportunity to give a tribute to Malcolm as I knew him, and to let you in on the personality of a fine Christian gentleman and scholar.

I first met Malcolm when I was an undergraduate student at this university where I now work. He was the academic dean, and I was a rather focused, gifted, but not particularly popular or well-known student trying to make my place in life and figure out my future. I don't recall when we first met; it just seems like I always knew him, as long as I knew the school.

Malcolm was tall--maybe 6 feet 3 or so--and had a sonorous voice and particular articulation of words that was all his own. Perhaps he got that from his father, Arthur, who was an immigrant from England. He certainly got his father's ability to tell a good story. I grew up reading books of "Uncle Arthur's" stories, some of which I later learned featured Malcolm and his antics as a child. I doubt I ever had a conversation with Malcolm in which he didn't either tell a story, or solicit a new one out of my brain. Or maybe both.

During my year in Finland between my junior and senior years of college, Malcolm and his wife moved away to northern California where he became president of a sister college. I lost track of him until about ten years later, when I applied for an opening as a faculty member at his school. They decided to interview me, and off I went up I-5 from southern California to see if they'd have me. I remember praying the whole time, "Help me to be just who I am, not fake, so they know who they're hiring. Then if they want me, it'll be a good fit."

They put me through a whole line of interviews, both in the academic department and with administration and the HR folk. I clearly remember the interview with the president. Malcolm's office at that time was in a windowless brick-walled "box" in the basement of the women's dorm, as they'd pulled down an old administration wing and the new administrative offices weren't set up yet. I sat down and he grinned his big friendly grin, sat back in his chair and pulled me easily into conversation as he was so good at doing. And then he popped the question: "What do you do for exercise?"

I was so shocked, I nearly fell off my chair. It's true that I was overweight, but I didn't think that figured into interviews. I was glad to be able to say that I went walking three miles every morning. Malcolm looked satisfied, made some comment about balance in life, and went on with the conversation.

Exercise was important to Malcolm, apparently. A few times I saw his wife Eileen walking home with her grocery bags from the store and offered her a ride up the hill. "Oh no," she said cheerily. "Malcolm says I should get my exercise!"

Quirky, yes. Illegal interview question, probably. But it was also good guidance for me to know that my college president thought a holistic, balanced approach to life was important for his faculty.

One thing that stands out for me above all else is that Malcolm was always in my cheering section. Soon after I arrived as a young, 32-year old faculty member, he invited me to give a worship talk to the college board. I later found out that was a very unusual invitation, and an honor.

Everything I did to enhance life in the college and the church was cheered on. When I'd play the organ for church (the one pictured here), Malcolm and Eileen would come up afterwards to compliment me. When we presented our student teachers to the visiting superintendents, Malcolm complimented me and the other professors on their quality. When I took on the sponsorship of the musical theater club, Malcolm and Eileen attended a performance each year. He'd drop me a note of congratulation and delight afterwards. Whenever he introduced me to others, he never failed to chuckle as he told them of the time I shocked the entire community by running screaming down the aisle of the Fine Arts auditorium, swinging strings of pearls in my role as Frumah Sarah in Fiddler on the Roof (yep, the picture here is really me, back in 1996).

I did get in trouble a few times in connection with the musical theater club. Once was when my students fund-raised money from the local wineries surrounding the college, which didn't fit with our commitment to being a teetotaling bunch of Christians. The second time was when a church member (who had an issue against drama, for some reason) wrote a letter to both me and the president, protesting that we were "teaching our students to tell lies" by having them act in dramas. [Long story; old tradition in our church.] In each case, I either was invited or invited myself to the president's office, and we had a cordial conversation that always felt like he was trusting me to solve the problem, but it was expected that it would be solved, and that I was accountable to him in doing it.

From time to time Malcolm commented to me that I was a future college president. I was tickled pink that he saw me as someone to whom the baton could be passed, and pleased that he would honor me that way. But I didn't really have an interest in it.

As a storyteller, Malcolm became highly interested one day when I told him that during that summer I'd recorded on tape my dad's stories of growing up in World War II Holland. Malcolm was fascinated. "What will you do with them?" he asked. I replied that I intended to write a book for kids or adolescents based on the stories. Malcolm was mightily pleased, and asked about that book every time he saw me thereafter. But I put writing a musical in front of the book project, and then I put getting acquainted with a certain man in front of the book, and then . . . well, then I asked Malcolm to officiate at our wedding and he was delighted to do so. And after that I moved away to be with my new husband, so the book hasn't been written yet. I feel like I still owe it to Malcolm--and my dad--to write it.

As I said, Malcolm officiated at our wedding. In a pre-wedding meeting with us, he asked in straightforward terms if we considered divorce an option. Because if we did, he said, it was a matter of principle to him to not officiate. He was satisfied with our answer. During the ceremony he stood tall and proud at the front of the college church, almost as if he was marrying off his own daughter. With much delight he told our story, as it had plenty of funny twists and turns, and--as I said--Malcolm always loved a good story. He also managed to get a detail or two wrong, so that whenever I watch our wedding DVD, I talk out loud to him over there on the TV screen and correct him.

Just as I left California to join my new husband in the Northwest, Malcolm retired. In the following six years, life for him was a challenge. His beloved wife, Eileen, was diagnosed with a debilitating illness, and gradually the person who had always taken care of him so that he could focus on ministry, teaching and administration became the object of his caretaking. She died last May, just as he was beginning to lose the use of his hands and feet in a rare disease that had struck him. His mind stayed clear and nimble right to the last week of his life, so I'm told.

Just a little over a month ago, on September 2, I got my last e-mail from Malcolm. I'd sent him the picture of our new university sign. He responded, "Your new administration building looks great as does your new sign.... Many important things have happened during your reign ... and I am sure there are more to come. Three cheers!"

So I say goodbye to Malcolm, my mentor, my first college president, my role model in administration, member of my cheering squad, and my friend. My joy is in anticipating that moment I imagine, when I'll be walking somewhere in heaven and hear his sonorous tones (you can sample them, even now, here) ringing out across some beautiful space, "Ginger! Did you ever write that book?" I don't yet know what my answer will be.