One thing that I am sure of, beyond any reasonable doubt, is that I am just one of many of Dr. Ed Hopkins’ students. Ed Hopkins never stopped being an educator, and from what I understand from his twin brother he started teaching in imaginary classrooms from a very young age, with Bill as his inattentive student. To know Ed was to learn from him. And what a great privilege it has been.
The first time I visited Ed in his apartment at Liberty Ridge, he greeted me at the front door with a beaming smile and proceeded to introduce me to every single person we passed in the hall as “his priest.” Back then I was, and am, still so new in my vocation. So to have this man, who clearly commanded the respect and earned the affection of so many, point to me and say “this is my priest,” was like being ordained all over again. Ed still introduced me the same way from his hospital bed, making sure every single nurse knew who I was. He honored me with some of his final clear moments, by sharing with me his wishes, both for the location of his final rest and for his children. He knew that things were different this time, and he was not afraid of anything except that his family might not know just how much he loved them, how very proud he was of them. I promised him they knew, and I promised I would tell them again. I promised I would tell you, and that was the moment he finally drifted off to sleep. It was my last one-on-one conversation with him.
That’s something else I cannot doubt, that Ed Hopkins loved his children. He loved his nieces and nephews and he loved his siblings. He loved his grandchildren, and his great-nephews and great-nieces. He loved his church family, and the vast network of students and colleagues and friends that seemed to grow every day of his life. He missed his Ginny, and his love for her was one of the first things he shared with me on that first visit, as we gazed together at her portrait on the wall. As so many have said to me this past week, Ed Hopkins was a well-loved man, and I believe that is partly because he loved so many people so well.
It is hard, so hard, to say goodbye to someone who has meant so much to so many. None of us were ready. I don’t know that we would have been ready if we had had Ed for another fifty years. When we lose someone like we’ve lost Ed, we might want to be like Martha and shake Jesus by the shoulders, tell him to bring our person back to us. We might want to get in God’s face, yell or shout or cry. God can take it. Like any loving parent witnessing the grief of a beloved child, God’s heart breaks with us. Not to erase our grief, but to remind us of our hope, God makes us the same promise he made to Martha- they will rise again. We will see them again, hear them again, hold them again. We will see Ed again. Even now Ed is living into that promise, dancing with the ones who went ahead of us, seeing with his own eyes the things he taught his Sunday School pupils to have faith in. The things he taught so many of us to have faith in, with his teaching and his parenting and his mentoring and his living. When it’s our time to see with our own eyes, I imagine he’ll greet each of us at the door so he can show us around, introduce us to everyone by name. I’m sure he’ll find a way to teach us something, even then.
I will miss Ed, and I know I am not alone in my grief. I know I am not alone in my hope either, in part because of the efforts of Christian leaders like Ed. I know that I am not alone because God loves us so much, he loved us until the end, and then he proved that by the love of God there is no end. This separation is not permanent, this goodbye is not the end. For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. Nothing separates us. This is what I know for sure. Thanks be to God.
Mother A Writes 