“You’re in the world—but it’s not your world anymore.” –Dr. James Dolezal

Friday, October  2^nd, the afternoon: I am sitting in an eternally cold EDU classroom, discussing “Bluegill,” a postmodern short story by Jayne Anne Phillips. Dr. Minto walks in, pale but otherwise alright. She updates us on her treatments.

She says, “Cancer and aging ain’t for sissies!” and we laugh.

Contemporary literature is a labyrinth of words, full of people trying to make sense of the world, writing and placing the burden of meaning upon us, the readers. Hard to analyze meaning out of certain stories, certain phrases, that sound more like poppycock than actual literature. Sometimes it feels like we’re riding on a wave of word vomit.

But we are not alone. We have Dr. Jean Minto, our guide in this postmodern jungle. She asks questions, helps us see aspects of the text we’ve never considered before. As student chat fades out, Dr. Minto says, “It is important for us to read stories like these. As Christians we tend to judge young mothers harshly without considering their circumstances. Literature opens our hearts, helps us develop compassion.”

Here she is, our guide, presenting us with a torch to see more in the light.

After class, I talk with my friends about what an icon our professor is. A warrior, determined and true, despite the pain of cancer and treatments she’s undergoing. Like her beloved Lord of the Rings series, she battles for a noble cause—loving her family, whether they be immediate or from Cairn University.

The weekend happens. I go to work. I go to church. I clean my room…sort of. I listen to the Six of Crows duology for the umpteenth time in a row. All is well.

Until it isn’t.

That Sunday night I see the email from Dr. Williams, the subject entitled “Jean Minto.” I see the opening line before I even open it. “It is with a heavy heart…”

No.

Words have not been formed for the amount of grief experienced when reading that email. A war waged in my head.

She couldn’t be gone.

She’s gone.

How could this happen?

How could we not see it?

The woman had seemed indestructible, even as she faded from our eyes. Which is why we all missed the facing part. She kept pushing on, and we all thought, “She’ll get through it, like she always does.”

It wasn’t hard to believe it—so much so that we didn’t consider the alternative…until the alternative stomped through, grabbed our throats, demanded satisfaction on the battlefield.

BELIEVE ME, it cried.

I don’t want to, I said.

And whether we believe it or not, we are shot in the heart.

“Take a breath,” Dr. Minto says. “Have a seat.”

I am a freshman, fresh-faced, terrified. I have my academic plan for next semester, but is it alright? What if I messed it up?

I take a breath, gratefully. Her office is filled with books—one wall is just a solid bookshelf. The sight of it calms me.

“How are you?” she asks. “How’s Cairn?”

“I’m doing alright, for now…”

I am a sophomore. Me and my fellow English majors are super excited for our Shakespeare class with Dr. Minto—despite the fact that it’s a 7:55-10:40am Friday class. We lug ourselves to Manor Hall, eyes still a little blurry from sleep.

And there’s the tea. Boxes of all sorts of teas, hot water ready. Every Friday, without fail, Dr. Minto brings the tea. Sometimes she even brings scones. Tea and Shakespeare and friends—what could constitute a better morning?

This past month, 3 years of memories have flooded my system, freezing me every time. Hamlet Jeopardy. The English Major get togethers with Literary Pictionary. Discussing Journey to the West over dumplings and fortune cookies. The Shakespeare Birthday Bash that never actually happened. Discussing Othello and King Lear and Macbeth and Antony and Cleopatra and the very stretches of human emotion, human action. Learning to appreciate postmodern art and literature—that was all because of her.

But most of all, I remember her kindness, her wit, her guidance, and her faith. Dr. Williams said she was a teacher to the end—and I think that’s how she wanted it to be.

Now, we are left with the loss of this person, this warrior felled by disease, and we must learn to manage.

Sometimes we as Christians feel pressured to be joyful too early. We hear that because she’s in heaven we have no reason to be sad.

But all I can see is the expanse of my life, stretching out, and her presence gone from the rest of it. We grieve; and let us grieve. Let us mourn Dr. Minto’s absence from this earth, where she loved and cherished and encouraged. Let us try to find meaning in what seems more like destruction than anything else.

Hope is not happiness. If it were, we could call it so. Hope is a gift from God. It is a burning flame to give us strength through the day.

Let us mourn, let us strengthen. Then, let us rejoice her presence with her beloved Lord.