"Hope" is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all
And sweetest in the Gale is heard
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm
I've heard it in the chillest land
And on the strangest Sea
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb of Me.
- Emily Dickinson
And so a much loved teacher passed away yesterday at 11:30am from lung cancer, not in Ireland (which was the country he was born and bred in), but in another land 6,800 miles away where he had devoted much of his life as an educator.
This was the last poem he taught me in English literature which has since become one of my favourite poems.
My thoughts drift back to the days where we would go on this magical literary ride into Oscar Wilde's satirical world, Mary Shelley's gothic yet spectacular novel as we delved into the inner world of Dr Victor Frankenstein (the scientist who was filled with regret for trying to play god) and the monster he created (such a gentle creature yet poorly misunderstood given his hideous exterior), and Sarah Orne Jewett's imaginative story-telling of a white heron. Can you tell how hard he made me fall for English literature?
My eyes are welling up in tears as I affectionately recall his gentle but firm tone, his rather thick Irish accent, his wry sense of humour and the twinkle in his eye as he passionately taught his students.
I am certain that generations of students are weeping at the passing of this humble, humble teacher and servant of God.
I just really regret not meeting up with him the last time I was home. What excuse did I have again? (a) I didn't want to inconvenience my mum to have to drive me all the way there (b) I was working on my article. These are but poorly made, bland excuses.
If there's a bible verse that reminds me of him, it would be this one:
Jesus called them together and said, “You know that those who are regarded as rulers of the Gentiles lord it over them, and their high officials exercise authority over them. Not so with you. Instead, whoever wants to become great among you must be your servant, and whoever wants to be first must be slave of all. For even the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many. - Mark 10:42-45
I give thanks to God for the legacy he has left and that I was one of the pupils he blessed. He was a great man simply because he devoted his time and resources to serve many, many students. He lived simply and had such little care for accruing worldly riches, but served unselfishly.
There is still much to rejoice about! Because this humble servant of God is now with the author and perfecter of his faith, in a place where he doesn't have to suffer anymore. And his godly example lives on in my heart and many others. Maybe they are animatedly discussing English literature at this very moment.
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all
And sweetest in the Gale is heard
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm
I've heard it in the chillest land
And on the strangest Sea
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb of Me.
- Emily Dickinson
And so a much loved teacher passed away yesterday at 11:30am from lung cancer, not in Ireland (which was the country he was born and bred in), but in another land 6,800 miles away where he had devoted much of his life as an educator.
This was the last poem he taught me in English literature which has since become one of my favourite poems.
My thoughts drift back to the days where we would go on this magical literary ride into Oscar Wilde's satirical world, Mary Shelley's gothic yet spectacular novel as we delved into the inner world of Dr Victor Frankenstein (the scientist who was filled with regret for trying to play god) and the monster he created (such a gentle creature yet poorly misunderstood given his hideous exterior), and Sarah Orne Jewett's imaginative story-telling of a white heron. Can you tell how hard he made me fall for English literature?
My eyes are welling up in tears as I affectionately recall his gentle but firm tone, his rather thick Irish accent, his wry sense of humour and the twinkle in his eye as he passionately taught his students.
I am certain that generations of students are weeping at the passing of this humble, humble teacher and servant of God.
I just really regret not meeting up with him the last time I was home. What excuse did I have again? (a) I didn't want to inconvenience my mum to have to drive me all the way there (b) I was working on my article. These are but poorly made, bland excuses.
If there's a bible verse that reminds me of him, it would be this one:
Jesus called them together and said, “You know that those who are regarded as rulers of the Gentiles lord it over them, and their high officials exercise authority over them. Not so with you. Instead, whoever wants to become great among you must be your servant, and whoever wants to be first must be slave of all. For even the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many. - Mark 10:42-45
I give thanks to God for the legacy he has left and that I was one of the pupils he blessed. He was a great man simply because he devoted his time and resources to serve many, many students. He lived simply and had such little care for accruing worldly riches, but served unselfishly.
There is still much to rejoice about! Because this humble servant of God is now with the author and perfecter of his faith, in a place where he doesn't have to suffer anymore. And his godly example lives on in my heart and many others. Maybe they are animatedly discussing English literature at this very moment.
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