Death

Last week, toward the end of the week, two of my favorite athletes died.

First was Lamar Lundy, the former defensive end for the L.A. Rams and member of the Fearsome Foursome. Although I was a fan of the 49ers, I admired the Rams' defense a lot, and Lamar Lundy was my favorite of the four because I thought his name sounded so cool!

Then the Supersonic/Sun/Celtic guard Dennis Johnson died suddenly on Friday. I was sad to know both men died. I was particularly shocked by Dennis Johnson's death. I loved his game. When he was moved into the starting lineup of the SuperSonics, he elevated their team's play in the late seventies with his dogged defense and his uncanny ability to hit shots at key times in games. He was the MVP of the 1979 NBA finals when the Sonics won their only NBA championship. Most people know Johnson for his play with the Celtics and well they should. He came to the Celtics and solidified their backcourt, gave the Celtics a reliable guard to handle the ball and run the offense, and a defender who could make Andrew Toney and Magic Johnson work harder. He was part of two championship teams with the Celtics and was a player who I enjoyed and who inspired me.

On Friday, two other deaths occurred, but I didn't hear about them until over the weekend. I was born on December 27, 1953 in the Wardner Hospital and two days earlier my life-long friend, Roger Pearson was born. Roger and I have done things together ever since church nursery school, kindergarten, Little League baseball, going to Whitworth College, and both moving to Oregon.

Roger's mother, Jenny, died on Friday at the end of her struggle with cancer. For most of my life, I've looked for people who seemed to me to embody the Kingdom of God, who are true disciples of what Jesus Christ taught and embodied in his life. One of these people was always Jenny Pearson. She was a generous, kind, comforting woman who lived what it meant when the gospels tell us we should be the word become flesh. She and her husband Conrad moved to Oregon many years ago. Services for her will be in McMinville and I'll be able, thankfully, to pay her life tribute at her memorial service.

That same day, my long-time friend and fellow English instructor at Lane, Jeff Harrison, lost his step-son Jonah to liver failure. Jonah's life was always difficult. Jonah is an Indian, born on the reservation in La Push. He lost his father to suicide. He was always a big boy, teased when he was younger. In his teenage years he began to drink heavily and was not receptive to help. He, I'm afraid, drank himself to death. It's another sad chapter in Jeff and Louise's life. Tomorrow will be a dinner in memory of Jonah at the University of Oregon longhouse. I am fortunate to have the time to join in.

The next two days will hold the joy that comes from my work and the company of my students and fellow teachers, and will hold the grief that comes from the loss of Jenny and Jonah.