The Lord is close to the brokenhearted;
    he rescues those whose spirits are crushed. – Psalm 34:18

It’s a curious thing, death. I am sixty-eight years old now and I never know how the passing of someone I know well is going to affect me. Sometimes it’s sad, sometimes it’s just information, and sometimes the fact of it hits hard – or unexpectedly – and I have to find a moment to take pause and to think and pray.

This happened a few minutes ago, when a mutual friend told me that Henry Ziegler had passed away, not long after his 75th birthday.

Henry was as unique an individual as I have ever known in my life. He told me, just a few years ago, that I was “his best friend” and while the revelation caught me a little off guard it did not completely surprise me. Why? Because I knew Henry, I understood the authentic and completely honest-to-goodness genuine spirit that he was, the unambiguous self that made him both completely accessible and completely vulnerable at the same time, and I loved him regardless.

Henry sensed that, he appreciated my unconditional positive regard, and he drew strength from it too.

I got to know Henry well in the men’s group I led at First Presbyterian Church of Brandon. It was a weekly Bible-study where I encouraged the guys to dispense with the facades that hide and limit and diminish too many of us, and we got to know one another at a deeper level than social conventions typically allow.

The guys nicknamed Henry (lovingly) “Google” because his knowledge was so widespread and encyclopedic. Henry was one of the most intelligent humans I have ever known.

Librarian and humanitarian:

Henry worked as a Librarian for the Florida State Prison system. He encouraged inmates to believe in themselves, to cultivate inquisitive minds and to continually engage with opportunities to learn. Unfortunately the state had little interest in either rehabilitation or hope and the program was progressively cut until Henry’s work at the Polk Correctional Institution was all that was left.

Henry recruited me to help with a writing class he taught at the prison, and my visits turned out to be eye-opening in many ways. Not the least of which was my admiration for Henry’s commitment to sharing the gift of an education with men who needed to know that someone believed in the promise of redemption.

My friend may have had a genius brain, but he struggled when it came to managing the practical aspects of life and home and health. Always, though, even when he and Carol faced the devastating grief of losing their only child (Ric), Henry lived his faith in God with genuine passion and commitment.

Henry had what could only be described as “A beautiful mind.” He loved learning and intellectual conversation, he read everything he could get his hands on, and he cultivated a lifelong appreciation for highbrow music, finding real joy in listening to his extensive collection of classical works.

So this weekend, as Henry wakes up to the most beautiful dawn he has ever seen and understands that all the limitations and frustrations and difficulties of earthly life have been set aside, I imagine that he is already at the feet of Jesus getting some questions answered, catching up with his son Ric, and surrounded by a heavenly orchestra and choir offering a thunderous interpretation of “Ode to Joy” conducted by Beethoven himself.

I appreciate your memory, old friend, and I will always be grateful for the confidence, the trust, and the love – unconditional – that you offered to me – DEREK