A few posts back, I mentioned that a former student of mine, Brad Toews died and that I would write more at a later date. There have been no fewer than 15 attempts. Everytime I sit down to write something I find myself at a loss: Brad was popular, funny, the life of the party... and Brad took his own life. I will never be able to wrap my mind around that.
Brad started taking classes with me last September. It was a 3 hour evening class - Major English Authors - on Monday nights. On the afternoon of the final exam, he came up and told me how much he liked my class and how he'd decided to stick around for another semester and was interested in the other courses I was offering.
Brad took both my second semester courses, including 18th century literature where he was one of four students. I got to know him pretty well (or so I thought). He was thoughtful, he tried, he was funny, very funny. Humour carries a lot of weight with me.
In trying to come up with a good Brad story, my mind races: there was the ever-present Giants hat, T-shirt (even in the middle of winter), and his smile; there was his arrival for each of our 8:30 classes with a bowl of cereal, an apple and his books; there were his stories about picking up hitchhikers; there was the time he ran back to dorm at the beginning of class to wake up another student who’d been having alarm clock issues. But my favourite Brad story, and the one I’d like to share, might not seem like that big a deal to some of you, but means the world to me, particularly now.
As some of you know, Providence College is a Christian school and the faculty are encouraged to pray at the start of each class. And, I’ll be honest, I’m terrible at it. Not that I don’t like or value prayer; I’m just not comfortable with spontaneously praying out loud. I asked my class if we could share the responsibility. At the start of each class, I’d ask for a volunteer to pray. More often than not, if no one else offered, Brad would throw up his hand, remove his hat and offer a simple, heartfelt blessing on the class that usually began, "Hey God." I hardly ever had to pray! I knew that if no one else offered, I could count on Brad to let me off the hook.
On the Thursday before Brad’s funeral, I got a call from Gerald Dyck of the Westside Community Church: Brad’s family wanted me to pray for hope for the future at his interment. There’s no way they could have appreciated the extra layer of irony, but I know Brad would have appreciated it. And though preparing that one prayer was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do, I was honoured to be on the hook.
Brad started taking classes with me last September. It was a 3 hour evening class - Major English Authors - on Monday nights. On the afternoon of the final exam, he came up and told me how much he liked my class and how he'd decided to stick around for another semester and was interested in the other courses I was offering.
Brad took both my second semester courses, including 18th century literature where he was one of four students. I got to know him pretty well (or so I thought). He was thoughtful, he tried, he was funny, very funny. Humour carries a lot of weight with me.
In trying to come up with a good Brad story, my mind races: there was the ever-present Giants hat, T-shirt (even in the middle of winter), and his smile; there was his arrival for each of our 8:30 classes with a bowl of cereal, an apple and his books; there were his stories about picking up hitchhikers; there was the time he ran back to dorm at the beginning of class to wake up another student who’d been having alarm clock issues. But my favourite Brad story, and the one I’d like to share, might not seem like that big a deal to some of you, but means the world to me, particularly now.
As some of you know, Providence College is a Christian school and the faculty are encouraged to pray at the start of each class. And, I’ll be honest, I’m terrible at it. Not that I don’t like or value prayer; I’m just not comfortable with spontaneously praying out loud. I asked my class if we could share the responsibility. At the start of each class, I’d ask for a volunteer to pray. More often than not, if no one else offered, Brad would throw up his hand, remove his hat and offer a simple, heartfelt blessing on the class that usually began, "Hey God." I hardly ever had to pray! I knew that if no one else offered, I could count on Brad to let me off the hook.
On the Thursday before Brad’s funeral, I got a call from Gerald Dyck of the Westside Community Church: Brad’s family wanted me to pray for hope for the future at his interment. There’s no way they could have appreciated the extra layer of irony, but I know Brad would have appreciated it. And though preparing that one prayer was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do, I was honoured to be on the hook.
2 comments:
Brad was there for a year while I was, and though we weren't close friends, it's a small community, and with his personality everybody knew him and liked him.
The great sadness is the same that I see in the poem "Not Waving But Drowning." Nobody could hear him.
I just received a copy of the Brad Toews Memorial edition of the Pamphleteer (the Prov sutdent paper). It includes Joanie Reimer's fantastic tribute from the funeral and a really nice piece by Brad's parents, who are wonderful people.
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