When Dr. Richard Cornelius announced his retirement, I was the one privileged to find myself with a position in the English Department at Bryan College. I did not take his place: no one possibly could have. He had been the Department chair for 30 years; he was a treasure, an icon.
My seniors that first semester did not want me as their teacher. A fierce love of and loyalty to Dr. Cornelius kept them from allowing themselves, for awhile, to warm to a stranger; they had wanted him to teach their final classes in the major. Over the last 15 years, I've heard from so many graduates before my time who loved him, as a teacher, a mentor, a friend.
I know him as a gracious and witty Southern gentleman who gave me all his course handouts and syllabi, and who, with good will, wished us success even when we changed some age-old academic traditions of the department. I too have watched things that I established and directed change under new leadership, and it can be hard to let go. If it was for Dr. Cornelius, he never let on to us.
I will let others tell the stories of his teaching and his attention to detail and his unique ways of challenging his students. I've heard so many of them, but I never experienced them. I can only say that he was a brilliant, humble, and kind man who made me feel that I had found a home and was welcome in it, even as he was moving toward its edges. While I did not have a great deal of interaction with him, I always felt his friendship and lovingkindness; I always knew I had only to ask and he would offer advice and wisdom.
His legacy permeates our department even now. His name comes up regularly within the department and from our alumni. We may do some things differently on the surface (no more MEG test!), but we do all things with the heart and vision of Richard Cornelius: love for our students, love for our Lord, and the instilling of a desire for excellence at every level.
I am grateful for his influence, much greater than it seems on the surface. I am sad for his loss and glad that I will see him again someday and know him better than I had the opportunity to in this world. May the Lord comfort his family and friends with many lovely memories and with eternal hope, and may we never forget to live his vision.
23 August 2014
14 August 2014
The echinacea are far gone now; none lifts a head toward the sun, and the drooping petals are fading rapidly from their elegant purple to a dull bleached white.
But the sun seems to burst from their decay in small fireballs as the local flock of goldfinches feeds and plays among the washed out blossoms. As I watch, one lands on the cone-shaped head of the tallest plant, swaying back and forth as he surveys the patch. I see at least five now, playing tag or leapfrog as they swoop toward and over each other in a few minutes’ play before settling to the serious business of harvesting. When K walks outside, at least eight take flight like brilliants in the late evening sun, breathtaking against the darkening blue of the sky.
Their bright gold, trimmed in glossy black, emphasizes the pallor of the echinacea and the dying of summer. Yet, just as I begin to feel the sorrow of the coming autumn, their sudden and startling color delights the eye and reminds me that even this decay holds its purpose – the birds feed and store up for winter flight; the flowers drop and fertilize the earth for spring. Indeed there is a season for everything, and the inevitable autumn need not be feared.
Photo Credit: Goldfinch on echinacea at Penn State Arboretum's pollinator garden. Photo by Anita Colyer Graham