Sacred Ties: A Reunion of Souls

After graduating from Amherst College in 1970, I returned to Michigan eager to teach, only to find the market saturated. Draft deferments during the Vietnam War had flooded the field. Jobs were scarce, and interviews were triumphs in themselves. Though I had hoped to teach high school math, I accepted a position teaching remedial math at Franklin Junior High in the Wayne-Westland School District. It wasn’t the work I’d dreamed of—but I felt I was doing what God intended me to do.

Over time, I moved into more advanced math courses and also taught an introductory photography class, which I loved. I spent my mornings preparing in the school’s darkroom, tucked in the science wing. It was there I met Warren Rysberg.

Warren was unlike anyone I’d ever met—radiant with joy, and endlessly devoted to his students. He became my closest friend on the faculty. We shared our classroom wins and defeats. There was no greater satisfaction than realizing I had positively impacted a student.

Still, uncertainty plagued the job. Each spring came with layoff slips. After six years, I left teaching for the actuarial profession, moving to Boston with my young family in 1977. It was the right decision, but as time passed, I lost contact with nearly everyone—including Warren.

Decades later, Sue Johnson, another teacher and dear friend, found me online. “Warren has cancer,” she said. “He’s not doing particularly well.” She gave me his number.

When I called him his voice—cheerful and full of life—stunned me. He was elated to hear from me, and we slipped seamlessly into the memories of our Franklin days. “Let’s stay in touch,” he said, laughing that old familiar laugh.

“I will,” I promised. “Warren, I want you to know I’ll be praying for you—for your recovery.”

“Thanks, Fred. I appreciate it.”

And we did stay in touch. We spoke often. Eventually, I proposed he visit New York with Sue Johnson and Barb Duncan, another beloved friend. He’d always dreamed of seeing Ellis Island, tracing his family’s roots. My wife and I opened our Connecticut home to them for a five-day stay in May 2005.

As the visit neared, anxiety crept in. Would we still connect? Would Warren be too sick? Could I truly make time for them?

From the moment they arrived, every doubt vanished. Warren’s joy was evident, his laughter just as infectious. The four of us—after 25 years—clicked instantly. My children and even my mother-in-law adored them.

We toured New York City with an eccentric guide, Timothy “Speed” Levitch, whose poetic takes on the city stood in hilarious contrast to Warren’s “country-boy” candor.

The next day, we took the ferry to the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. As Warren walked those grounds in search of his ancestors, I felt the poignancy of the moment—joy and sorrow entwined. In our quiet walks, arm in arm I thought of life, death, and the sacredness of friendship.

One night, after the hush of shared silence, we spoke about eternity. “Warren,” I said, “you are immortal. I’m sure of it. I know it through my faith; I truly believe in a glorious afterlife.”

He nodded in silent affirmation, and later told others how much hope that gave him.

He had advice for me, too: “Fred, you’ve got to stop and smell the roses. Why don’t you consider retiring early? Spend more time with Sue and the kids. Follow your passions while you’re still here.”

I told him my plan—to retire at fifty-nine and attend Yale Divinity School. “I love it!” he beamed. “Do it! Do it without doubt or hesitation. You won’t regret it.”

On the day of their departure, I woke very early to write Warren a note before I departed for my New York City office:

Warren:

I can’t tell you how much this weekend has meant to me. Seeing you again and enjoying time together laughing and reminiscing has been truly special for me and really very therapeutic. My own illness (workaholism) is in many ways more devastating and fatal than your cancer.

You have been one of my very best friends and I only regret that I let so many years get away with such little direct contact. I thank God that He allowed me the true privilege and honor of seeing you again with Barb and Sue over such a glorious week together.

You have touched so many lives in so many ways that none of us can ever dream of living a more full and complete life. I have been praying for you every day since I heard of your illness, and I will continue to do so. I knew immediately when I saw you that God had answered those prayers because you looked so terrific and full of “life.” Clearly God is not done with you yet and I’m certain God will give you more time to spread your wonderful humor, love, and joy to all of those whom you continue to touch.

Thank you for reminding me what life is really all about before it was too late for me.

Your friend forever,
Fred

In the year that followed, I kept in close contact. Sue Johnson often visited Warren, who was by then living alone in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. By June 2006, he was fading. I called him one last time.

“I love you, Warren,” I said. “I love you and I owe you. You were instrumental in my decision to retire at fifty-nine and attend Yale Divinity School. ‘Make the choice quickly,’ you said. ‘Implement it without doubt or hesitation.’ I’ve done it, my friend.”

Tears streamed down my face and there was a painful lump in my throat. My last words were, “Warren, I love you and I’ll see you on the other side.”

He passed away just days later.

At his funeral, surrounded by hundreds who loved him, I reflected on the profound reach of one seemingly ordinary teacher. He wasn’t a CEO or even the end of the head of the science department, but he changed the world—in classrooms, friendships, and sacred silences.

Warren Rysberg lives on in every life he touched.