When I was in elementary school, I was a Girl Scout. And every year, on Valentine’s Day, there was a Girl Scouts Father-Daughter Dance at the local community center. In second grade, I’d attended with my dad — I know this because I still have the photo of us in a big rattan chair with construction paper HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY letters arranged in a half circle above.
Many years ago I had a high school friend I will call Miriam, and you will soon see why I do not use her real name. I thought Miriam had the perfect family. All the kids (4) were on the honor roll. During sleepovers her mother served us a lavish breakfast with real china. Her father was jolly and welcoming.
The perfect family. It made me cringe at how messy my house was when she came over, which was not often, and frankly, my mother, not a morning person but warm and kind, let us fend for ourselves for breakfast, which I generally made for us.
Years later I found out that Miriam’s father was a monster who abused all the kids physically and sometimes sexually. Her mother ignored it, and their pleas for help. I was stunned. When Miriam told me this, I blurted, foolishly, “But all of you got all As in school! You never even got a B!” To which Miriam replied, “Maura, there are WAYS to make your children study.” When I asked her how she survived to be a rational, giving adult, she said, “I knew your mother loved me.”
Even though she rarely saw my mother, my mom’s kindness and conversations helped Miriam tie a knot and hang on until she could escape that house of horrors.
My mother never knew about any of this. She died when I was in college.
The moral of this story is that one adult can make an ENORMOUS difference in the life of a child - whether they know it or not.
I am so sorry for the loss of this wonderful man, but I am glad he influenced you and others to make a more gentle world.
I am so sorry for your loss, and send warmth to you and everyone who loved John.
My significant adult was my godmother, Joy, who lived up to her name in so many ways. She listened to me. From my earliest memories of her, she was that precious adult who made me feel so very, very worthy of love because she measured everything I said with fond gravity. She filled in little gaps in my upbringing with such deft kindness that at the time I had no idea what was happening, and was a full-grown adult before I grasped the scope the safety net she offered. She never made fun of me or the things I enjoyed (including my musical choices!), and her house was a quiet and beautiful. I loved her so much, with parts of me that I didn't even realize were involved until she died unexpectedly while on a skiing vacation when I was in my thirties. My grief was enormous and shocking and it still brings tears to my eyes to think of all the things I wish I could share with her. But oh, what a gift she was to a child.
I try to be that significant adult in the life of my niblings, whom I love and adore and admire. They are 11 and 17, and I am never less than amazed at their capacity for creativity, joy, and affection,, even when they are rubbing on my last nerve. The 11 year old is deeply into Taylor Swift right now, and tonight I get to give her an actual hoodie from the Eras tour, and she is going to lose her shit. The 17 year old gets a limited-edition, bright yellow vinyl copy of Lemonade, and likewise. And more, I will get to sit with them and hear their stories today, and relish watching them journey into womanhood with a fierce team of loving aunties behind them. I am lucky beyond the telling of it.
When I was in high school I was what they called a "troubled teenager," although I now know I was autistic and depressed, with distant parents who thought I was a problem.
But my guidance counselor didn't think I was a problem. Her first year at my school was my freshman year, and from the beginning she believed that I (and, to be fair, all of her students) deserved love, and support, and everything good, then and in our future. When I applied to some real stretch schools for college (my grades were horrific until the latter half of my junior year), she called my #1 school every. single. day. to tell them why they should let me in. Because she believed I deserved it. (I got in.)
I also had a history teacher my junior year who was having none of my bullshit. When I acted out or skipped class or failed a test he looked at me like he could see through me to every reason why. He thought I was smart, and made fun of me (made fun of me! Gently and kindly, but still!) when I didn't do what I was capable of. I started working hard in that class, just to spite him. Toward the end of the year he did the math and said that if I got an A on the final, I'd get an A for the year. Then he said, "But I don't think you can do it." I've never studied so hard - and I got that A.
When I told him where I was applying to colleges, he said, "No. You want to go to Smith." An audacious dream for a "troubled teenager."
You wrote, “Part of the reason that abuse is so devastating is because the relationship can be so important.” I lingered on that line for a long pause, thinking about how many adults in my childhood let me down. The fact that you had this wonderful relationship and model is such a gift. I’m so sorry for your loss.
What you describe as how you carry and honor John's memory through the way you try to be for other children is the reason I don't think of people like John as ever really dying.
That spark of and from him in all the children who knew he loved them, and that those children will pass along to others in a never-ending chain, is the very definition of ever-lasting life.
May every child be able to see the world with 'I am loved' eyes.
Thank you for your tribute. I rediscovered church in a positive way thanks to a female pastor who sounds like her style and beliefs for preaching are in line with John’s. My pastor led a progressive Presbyterian church in Oakland, where I started attending as a new mother in my 30s, and she became a friend and mentor to me and many. It felt radical to go to church in the Bay Area, where so many reject organized religion for good reasons, and I felt part of a small community trying to reclaim Christianity and hold onto the loving, pacifist role model of Jesus when Christianity in most of the rest of the country was and is becoming ever more conservative, rigid, and more connected to our worst rather than best impulses as humans. Your post captures our need as kids to feel safe and loved. It’s refreshing and heartening to read about good-hearted men who have nothing creepy about them.
I never really had a significant adult like that in my life when I was growing up. A lot of adults in my community liked me, but I lacked strong ties in my community.
Now that I’m an adult who only realized that my family neglected me a few years ago, I try to be the person I could have needed when I felt desperate and alone in the room. In particular, this comes in handy when I try to touch base with new hires at work. They’re all adults, and many of them are older than me, but they’re thrown into a job with little guidance or training. If I see a new face all alone looking like a deer in the headlights, even asking what their name is stands out.
My favorite John memories definitely include his laugh, candlelight Christmas service ending with Silent Night and Joy to the World, his competitiveness during ANY game. I stayed with the Williams family many times and he took Marissa and I to McDonald's and to our basketball practices. He was so proud of Marissa for making the team as she was one of the smaller girls in our grade.
Her name was Irene. She became friends with my mom when my mom worked as a secretary at an Insurance company in the seventies (oh, the sexism they experienced, wow). She was a bit older than my mom and British, having lived through World War 2 (she despised margarine, a replacement for butter during war time), but despite their age and cultural differences they developed a warm friendship. After my mom had my twin sister and I, Irene and her husband John offered to watch us for a week or so every summer. My sister and I loved our time with them. Irene taught us to embroider and sew which required a lot of slow and careful attention. We were so proud of our potholders and handkerchiefs! We had a bath every night before bed, which was a surprising but welcome routine that I remember being so comforting. And almost every morning after breakfast, I would wonder into the garden with her to help her tend to her cucumbers and other vegetables. Sometimes I would just watch or daydream. Irene didn't mind. Every day with them had a structure or plan, but it wasn't rigid or harsh. It was a structure built on care and sometimes that meant an afternoon nap or a walk through the neighborhood, rather than sewing or gardening.
As we got older we stopped going to Irene and John's. Our lives got busy. My sister moved out, I went to college and also moved out, left the state, left the country. My parents divorced and our entire family on both sides fell apart. It took many years to heal. When I finally had a bit of ground beneath my feet, I remembered Irene and John and looked them up. John had passed away and Irene had moved to Oregon, I think to be closer to her children and grandchildren. I wrote her a letter letting her know how much I appreciated her and John, but I never heard back. I was disappointed but I also understood that maybe she wasn't able to respond or that I may have written to the wrong address. She passed away in 2016. I cherish my memories with her and John and will forever be grateful for all the love, care, and attention they gave my sister and I.
People so often look at children and even teenagers and see potential future people. When I think about my significant adults - mostly all from church - I remember that they valued and respected me and my peers as fellow human beings just as we were. Not like, "hi buddy what are you gonna be when you grow up" but like, "tell me what matters to you right now." And actually listening to the answers. I'm so sorry you've lost one of your people.
What a lovely tribute and benediction. I am so sorry for your loss.
I am a Presbyterian pastor myself (PCUSA and same pedigree as Rev Williams) and find renewed inspiration and conviction from your words: may we all find places where we feel safe and beloved; and may we create and hold that space gently for our children.
I enjoy talking to children, teens and young people. I try not to talk down to anyone or set myself up as an authority: I just ask them to tell me about themselves. Younger people are full of enthusiasm and the excitement of discovering things. I get them to tell me what cool thing I should know about. Essentially, I try to show that I care about them as individuals at whatever age they are, not as an extension of their parents or someone I’ve known since they were born.
I’m so sorry for your loss. What a beautiful human. I love how you are continuing his legacy.
I never got to tell my great aunt how much she meant to me. The enormity of my love for her was so great I didn’t have the words. She died when I was fourteen.
Many years ago I had a high school friend I will call Miriam, and you will soon see why I do not use her real name. I thought Miriam had the perfect family. All the kids (4) were on the honor roll. During sleepovers her mother served us a lavish breakfast with real china. Her father was jolly and welcoming.
The perfect family. It made me cringe at how messy my house was when she came over, which was not often, and frankly, my mother, not a morning person but warm and kind, let us fend for ourselves for breakfast, which I generally made for us.
Years later I found out that Miriam’s father was a monster who abused all the kids physically and sometimes sexually. Her mother ignored it, and their pleas for help. I was stunned. When Miriam told me this, I blurted, foolishly, “But all of you got all As in school! You never even got a B!” To which Miriam replied, “Maura, there are WAYS to make your children study.” When I asked her how she survived to be a rational, giving adult, she said, “I knew your mother loved me.”
Even though she rarely saw my mother, my mom’s kindness and conversations helped Miriam tie a knot and hang on until she could escape that house of horrors.
My mother never knew about any of this. She died when I was in college.
The moral of this story is that one adult can make an ENORMOUS difference in the life of a child - whether they know it or not.
I am so sorry for the loss of this wonderful man, but I am glad he influenced you and others to make a more gentle world.
I am so sorry for your loss, and send warmth to you and everyone who loved John.
My significant adult was my godmother, Joy, who lived up to her name in so many ways. She listened to me. From my earliest memories of her, she was that precious adult who made me feel so very, very worthy of love because she measured everything I said with fond gravity. She filled in little gaps in my upbringing with such deft kindness that at the time I had no idea what was happening, and was a full-grown adult before I grasped the scope the safety net she offered. She never made fun of me or the things I enjoyed (including my musical choices!), and her house was a quiet and beautiful. I loved her so much, with parts of me that I didn't even realize were involved until she died unexpectedly while on a skiing vacation when I was in my thirties. My grief was enormous and shocking and it still brings tears to my eyes to think of all the things I wish I could share with her. But oh, what a gift she was to a child.
I try to be that significant adult in the life of my niblings, whom I love and adore and admire. They are 11 and 17, and I am never less than amazed at their capacity for creativity, joy, and affection,, even when they are rubbing on my last nerve. The 11 year old is deeply into Taylor Swift right now, and tonight I get to give her an actual hoodie from the Eras tour, and she is going to lose her shit. The 17 year old gets a limited-edition, bright yellow vinyl copy of Lemonade, and likewise. And more, I will get to sit with them and hear their stories today, and relish watching them journey into womanhood with a fierce team of loving aunties behind them. I am lucky beyond the telling of it.
When I was in high school I was what they called a "troubled teenager," although I now know I was autistic and depressed, with distant parents who thought I was a problem.
But my guidance counselor didn't think I was a problem. Her first year at my school was my freshman year, and from the beginning she believed that I (and, to be fair, all of her students) deserved love, and support, and everything good, then and in our future. When I applied to some real stretch schools for college (my grades were horrific until the latter half of my junior year), she called my #1 school every. single. day. to tell them why they should let me in. Because she believed I deserved it. (I got in.)
I also had a history teacher my junior year who was having none of my bullshit. When I acted out or skipped class or failed a test he looked at me like he could see through me to every reason why. He thought I was smart, and made fun of me (made fun of me! Gently and kindly, but still!) when I didn't do what I was capable of. I started working hard in that class, just to spite him. Toward the end of the year he did the math and said that if I got an A on the final, I'd get an A for the year. Then he said, "But I don't think you can do it." I've never studied so hard - and I got that A.
When I told him where I was applying to colleges, he said, "No. You want to go to Smith." An audacious dream for a "troubled teenager."
But go to Smith I did.
You wrote, “Part of the reason that abuse is so devastating is because the relationship can be so important.” I lingered on that line for a long pause, thinking about how many adults in my childhood let me down. The fact that you had this wonderful relationship and model is such a gift. I’m so sorry for your loss.
What you describe as how you carry and honor John's memory through the way you try to be for other children is the reason I don't think of people like John as ever really dying.
That spark of and from him in all the children who knew he loved them, and that those children will pass along to others in a never-ending chain, is the very definition of ever-lasting life.
May every child be able to see the world with 'I am loved' eyes.
Thank you for your tribute. I rediscovered church in a positive way thanks to a female pastor who sounds like her style and beliefs for preaching are in line with John’s. My pastor led a progressive Presbyterian church in Oakland, where I started attending as a new mother in my 30s, and she became a friend and mentor to me and many. It felt radical to go to church in the Bay Area, where so many reject organized religion for good reasons, and I felt part of a small community trying to reclaim Christianity and hold onto the loving, pacifist role model of Jesus when Christianity in most of the rest of the country was and is becoming ever more conservative, rigid, and more connected to our worst rather than best impulses as humans. Your post captures our need as kids to feel safe and loved. It’s refreshing and heartening to read about good-hearted men who have nothing creepy about them.
I never really had a significant adult like that in my life when I was growing up. A lot of adults in my community liked me, but I lacked strong ties in my community.
Now that I’m an adult who only realized that my family neglected me a few years ago, I try to be the person I could have needed when I felt desperate and alone in the room. In particular, this comes in handy when I try to touch base with new hires at work. They’re all adults, and many of them are older than me, but they’re thrown into a job with little guidance or training. If I see a new face all alone looking like a deer in the headlights, even asking what their name is stands out.
SECRET PASSAGE! Loved that memory
My favorite John memories definitely include his laugh, candlelight Christmas service ending with Silent Night and Joy to the World, his competitiveness during ANY game. I stayed with the Williams family many times and he took Marissa and I to McDonald's and to our basketball practices. He was so proud of Marissa for making the team as she was one of the smaller girls in our grade.
He was one great man.
Her name was Irene. She became friends with my mom when my mom worked as a secretary at an Insurance company in the seventies (oh, the sexism they experienced, wow). She was a bit older than my mom and British, having lived through World War 2 (she despised margarine, a replacement for butter during war time), but despite their age and cultural differences they developed a warm friendship. After my mom had my twin sister and I, Irene and her husband John offered to watch us for a week or so every summer. My sister and I loved our time with them. Irene taught us to embroider and sew which required a lot of slow and careful attention. We were so proud of our potholders and handkerchiefs! We had a bath every night before bed, which was a surprising but welcome routine that I remember being so comforting. And almost every morning after breakfast, I would wonder into the garden with her to help her tend to her cucumbers and other vegetables. Sometimes I would just watch or daydream. Irene didn't mind. Every day with them had a structure or plan, but it wasn't rigid or harsh. It was a structure built on care and sometimes that meant an afternoon nap or a walk through the neighborhood, rather than sewing or gardening.
As we got older we stopped going to Irene and John's. Our lives got busy. My sister moved out, I went to college and also moved out, left the state, left the country. My parents divorced and our entire family on both sides fell apart. It took many years to heal. When I finally had a bit of ground beneath my feet, I remembered Irene and John and looked them up. John had passed away and Irene had moved to Oregon, I think to be closer to her children and grandchildren. I wrote her a letter letting her know how much I appreciated her and John, but I never heard back. I was disappointed but I also understood that maybe she wasn't able to respond or that I may have written to the wrong address. She passed away in 2016. I cherish my memories with her and John and will forever be grateful for all the love, care, and attention they gave my sister and I.
People so often look at children and even teenagers and see potential future people. When I think about my significant adults - mostly all from church - I remember that they valued and respected me and my peers as fellow human beings just as we were. Not like, "hi buddy what are you gonna be when you grow up" but like, "tell me what matters to you right now." And actually listening to the answers. I'm so sorry you've lost one of your people.
Your benediction is so beautiful it brought tears to my eyes.
What a lovely tribute and benediction. I am so sorry for your loss.
I am a Presbyterian pastor myself (PCUSA and same pedigree as Rev Williams) and find renewed inspiration and conviction from your words: may we all find places where we feel safe and beloved; and may we create and hold that space gently for our children.
(Oops, guess I’m also inclined to benediction.)
I enjoy talking to children, teens and young people. I try not to talk down to anyone or set myself up as an authority: I just ask them to tell me about themselves. Younger people are full of enthusiasm and the excitement of discovering things. I get them to tell me what cool thing I should know about. Essentially, I try to show that I care about them as individuals at whatever age they are, not as an extension of their parents or someone I’ve known since they were born.
This is so beautiful. What a life lived. Thank you for sharing your gratitude and your grief, AHP. I'm so sorry for our loss.
I’m so sorry for your loss. What a beautiful human. I love how you are continuing his legacy.
I never got to tell my great aunt how much she meant to me. The enormity of my love for her was so great I didn’t have the words. She died when I was fourteen.
What a beautiful tribute to John. I hope he realized how special his unconditional love was.
I never had the benefit and joy of that experience growing up.
I try to give unconditional love and support for my three children, my daughter-in-law and son-law., and my grandson. My wife as well.