Thanks, Russ—See You Soon

Russ Blowers died on November 10, 2007—just a few minutes short of Veteran's Day. Russ was my friend, but it's not unusual I could make that claim because thousands of people considered him a friend. As admirers pointed out at his funeral, he was "a people person par excellence."

Russ Blowers was a faithful husband who stood by his wife for a decade as she slid deeper and deeper into the throes of Alzheimer's disease. He was a true pastor-teacher who shepherded his flock with sincerity and love. He was an effective preacher who steadfastly lifted up Christ and the cross, and baptized so many people it's impossible to count them all. He was a military veteran who served his country proudly and always honored the men and women who sacrificed to keep us free.

And Russ was a capable writer. When I began working with The Lookout in 1996, he was one of our regular columnists. With wit and wisdom, he answered a wide range of questions submitted by readers in his column, "Face to Faith." He tackled down-to-earth questions like "Is there help for a troubled child?" He wrote about deep issues like "Why does God allow evil?" Sometimes he even wrote about unusual questions like "Is there life on other planets?"

The best way for me to pay tribute to my friend is to let him have the last word. He wrote the following article for the November 15, 1998 issue of The Lookout—nine years (to the day) before his funeral.

GOOD-BYES

By Russ Blowers

Good-bye is so terminal. Jesus never once said it. He said things like, "I'm leaving, but I'll be back." He said, "Peace I leave with you," but he never said good-bye.

Lowell Thomas ended his news program in the 1930s with, "So long until tomorrow." That's not too bad. You knew Lowell would be back with you in 24 hours. "Good night" is OK too. It implies a good morning. "See you later" is indefinite, but it does mean there will be a subsequent meeting.

But good-bye means, "I don't know when and where we'll meet again." We tone down its finality with "bye-bye," but that only masks the reality.

In the parting scene in Casablanca, Berman says, "Good-bye, Rick." But Bogart the sentimentalist says, "Here's looking at you, kid." All the language groups use some word that is more in line with "I'll see you again." Hasta la vista. Arrivederci. Aloha. Auf Widersehen. Au revoir. Human nature is not into good-byes. Good-bye can be a painful separation that may last for a long time.

Looking Back

I don't like good-byes. I lived with a squadron of men overseas for three years. We were like brothers. We shared the agony and ecstasy of war. But there came a day at an Air Force discharge center when we all said good-bye to each other. With very few exceptions, we never were to meet again.

I had a young British girlfriend named Anne. She was the daughter of a London bobby, a fact that probably served to regulate my behavior around his little girl. I was not a Christian, but I envisioned my future back home in Ohio. I had a strange pervasive sense that the God I didn't know real well was going to do something in and with my life. Anne envisioned her future married to a Yank and living the English fairy tale existence in a thatch-roofed cottage near Epping Forest. Since our plans and dreams were diametrically opposite, there came a day at Liverpool Street Station in London when we said good-bye. Two 19-year-olds going in different directions and fading into the station crowd without ever looking back. Good-bye.

Looking Ahead

Marian, Phil, Paul, and I had just finished our prayer and were ready to eat dinner when the phone rang. A nurse at Methodist Hospital told me Mindy had just died. The pneumonia was too much for the impaired heart of our little angel unaware to overcome. I told my little flock, and after we cried together, I hurried to the hospital where the staff had left her baby body in a small room. They left me alone with my Downy daughter, and I took 10 minutes to talk with her and God. I never said good-bye, because I knew she was even then "beholding the face of my Father in Heaven," and I would see her again. In the winter of my weeping I said, "See you, Mindy. See you in the morning."

My Marian says good-bye a dozen times a day. In her lonely Alzheimer's world she repeats her litany: "I want to go. Jesus, let me die today. Good-bye." I know there will come a day when she will go Home where she wants to be. I read and read the precious promises about being where Jesus is, where there are no more tears, no more death, no more mourning, no more pain, no more "long good-byes."

And I rejoice that "good-bye" is just an old Anglo-Saxon term meaning "God be with ye." He is, and he will be, and that is enough to soften the sweet sorrow of parting.