Osler's Razor

Not all moments are equal.  Last Sunday was extraordinary.

As I described here, I was able (through the kind invitation of Dr. Joanne Braxton) to give a sermon in the Wren Chapel.  I can't really fully describe that experience; it was a Holy Spirit moment just to be in that room.

It's a small room, and intimate. We were crowded together on facing benches.  Dr. Braxton directed the liturgy, and from the first moment you knew it would be something deep and powerful.  We did the usual church things-- sang and prayed and I preached-- but there was a hush to it all, a solemnity and joy all at once.

Part of that joy came from the people who were there.  As I described last week, there were people from each part of my life, from childhood to the present; many (though not all) of the people who know me best were in that small room, a cloud of saints, and we sang.

One of those people was Laurie Smith, who was my babysitter (not recently-- back when I was 8).  She is a gentle, wise, warm woman who lives in New York now.  She was such a model of grace to me in that moment in the Wren Chapel, because she was grieving.  Only weeks ago, she lost her young and talented daughter, Shana, an unimaginable thing.  Years ago, she lost her brother, Sandy, who taught me and every other kid in my town how to play tennis. After that service last Sunday, one week ago, she lost her father, Bill Smith, who died in a hospital in Richmond.

We were neighbors.  He was not just any acquaintance, but a neighbor, who cares about and enjoys and brings joy to the people who are lucky enough to be nearby.  He was exactly that-- and I have never known another quite like him-- someone who was always interesting and smart and funny.  As I wrote previously, I went to William and Mary in part because I thought it would help me become more like him and his brilliant wife Jane.

I reconnected with that family recently, when I started working with Craig Anderson and his church in Richmond (the Smiths had moved to Richmond after I started college).   Mr. Smith was the same as when he lived down the block-- someone who was always (in combination with his bride) the smartest, funniest, most joyous person in the room.

There was great irony in his name:  "Bill Smith."  It is about the most common name there is, something you might be assigned in a witness relocation program, but the person who bore it, in Detroit and Virginia and now in Heaven, was about the most singular, unique soul that I have known.  I miss him, and will, and am glad to have sung with him in an empty restaurant as the bartender leaned over the counter, smiling.