George and His Little Light

The most perfect description of George I know is in that old gospel hymn, “This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine.” He always, always let his light shine--and what an amazing light it was.

Since I got the sad news last year that George had passed away, I’ve been thinking about him quite a bit.

We met about a half-century ago when he was a Vista volunteer near Alton, Illinois; Nixon was president; and plenty of us (decidedly including George) were besotted with “Doonesbury.”

He was unlike every other person I knew in that part of the earth. If there were others bopping around Alton who were at once New England aristocrats and militant leftists, I doubt we crossed paths. If they were also Christian Scientists, and baby boomers, and Stanford alumni, I’m completely positive I never met them.

To say that George was one fascinating cat is an understatement. He was a congenitally optimistic, wickedly funny, intensely ethical, ferociously independent, and, above all, emotionally generous soul.

At that point in our young lives, all of us were figuring out what our careers would be. I remember wondering what in the world this man might do after his Vista gig came to an end.

There were obviously lots of jobs where he would have been terrible, including money manager and used-car salesman. And he would have been a horrible politician in a marginal district. That’s because he was as candid as he was sweet-natured. After spending fifteen minutes with George, plenty of Republicans would have loved him; absolutely none would have voted for him.

The truth is that politics was always important to George. He was quite radical, which, for him, usually meant something like Bernie Sanders’ socialism or possibly to the left of Bernie’s neighborhood.

Where did it come from? A good guess is that George inferred his politics from his morals.

By reflex, he was on the side of women, people of color, queers, convicted criminals, poor people, and the mentally ill. And not just on their side. He was committed to actively support them. It was completely obvious to George that they should be treated with the same respect and affection, and have all of the same opportunities in life, as the lucky and well-heeled.

Since he was involved as a young man with Ira Sandperl’s and Joan Baez’s Resource Center for Nonviolence out in California, he may have also been a pacifist, or at least broadly sympathetic to pacifism.

There was no room in George’s ethical constitution for cutting corners and making deals. Small wonder that he didn’t run for office.

Fortunately, he instead became a practitioner. That was just where he belonged. It’s a safe bet that for George, it was all simply about helping people who needed help.

In the first decades I knew him, his Christian Science practice was one of the two best things that happened for George. The other was his romance and marriage with Bonniesue.

If I believed in blessings, I would think that they were deeply blessed to find each other. But I don’t. Rather, I think it was incredibly terrific luck. Wonderful things do happen sometimes. For the rest of their lives together, Bonniesue and George clearly belonged with each other as much as any couple can.

You could tell that these two genuinely enjoyed each other’s company. They were affectionate and astute in quite similar ways—and besides, they were so much fun.

There’s something else very interesting about George and Bonniesue. They did what almost no couple ever does in middle age and later: they were curious, they learned new things, they grew, and from time to time, they changed their minds profoundly about lots of things, including what Christian Science is about. If I understood right, their faith never wavered an inch, but it took on very different contours.

Of course, life dumped quite a few challenges on them. George’s incapacity at the end, and the burden of caring for him that Bonniesue took on, may well have been the worst of all.

I imagine that no one could have handled that predicament with more grace and common sense and love than Bonniesue. I also imagine that her grief at losing George must be incalculable. It feels inadequate to say that my heart goes out to her and their family. I only hope that with time, little by little, they can heal.

From my own vantage point, friendship with George was good news, bad news, and excellent news.

The good news was that we were close for all those decades.

The bad news was that after the first year or so, we never lived near enough to spend Saturday afternoons at Starbucks talking about everything in the solar system and getting acquainted with the people each of us adored.

The excellent news was that literally every time we talked on the phone or met in person, we immediately hit stride. In an age of texting and tweets, we’d talk for an hour or two.

Those conversations were magnificent. We’d catch up on what was really going on in our interior lives. We’d dissect the entire planet. More often than not, he’d crack me up with his surpassingly corny (and thoroughly endearing) jokes. His goofy puns alone were a work of art. They should be in the Smithsonian.

And now, may that extraordinary, lovable guy rest in peace. Without George and his little light, the world isn’t quite the same.