Remembering Deacon Roy

I opened up my Facebook page Tuesday morning—a practice I usually don't indulge in at first wake. Typically, before the news of the outside world outside engages my mind and spirit, I arise and move into devotional and scripture reading, walk/run atop the sidewalks of my neighborhood, and then proceed into a period of journaling, meditation, and prayer. 

But Tuesday morning was different. My iPhone informed me of a Facebook notification. Angela Counts had tagged me in a comment. Curious, I clicked. And there it was, the opening line: “Not sure if Deacon Roy Davis was around during your tenure.” My heart began to sink even before I read the words that followed. That he had passed. It was sudden. I was saddened by the fact that someone who played by such a significant role during my years at HDS was no longer on earth.

Deacon Roy was a minister—a caretaker of the grounds, and of our souls. The entire campus—every classroom, meeting space, every square foot of acreage, and for the most part, every student—was part of his “church.” When our paths crossed, he would sense when it was not a good day for me. He would then say a word that would bring a smile, or sometimes, “Let’s pray.” Sometimes he would share a gem of wisdom, reminding me that this too shall pass. As I look back, I think of him as embodying God’s presence, reminding me, reminding us, that we are not alone in this journey called “HDS.”

I first met “Deacon,” as I would call him, during my early days at HDS. It started with general hellos—at the close of student orientation functions, or while rushing through the hallways to and from classes, or while moving swiftly across campus.

Our hellos soon gave way to brief conversations. He mentioned that he was a deacon and for me, on a campus with a plurality of faith traditions, it was neat to discover another who shared my Christian faith. This meant so much because I was transitioning from the film world into the rigors of academia, and more precisely into a space where the very beliefs that I had stood firm in, for the better part of my life, were being challenged and shaken. I needed to feel a sense of “spirit-home.”

One of my harried mornings, during my first semester at HDS, Deacon called me aside in the hall, just outside of the Sperry Room in Andover Hall. He handed me a small plastic cup, which contained a couple of stems of ivy.  A few drops of water sustained them. He instructed me to take the leaves home and to replant them in a pot. He urged me to gaze and focus upon them as I cared for them. Deacon believed that this daily practice would help to ease some of the stress and anxiety that had plagued my sense of joy.

Though I had appreciated the gift, I was initially fearful because I had a poor reputation with plants. Under my care the most resilient of plants had gone from the glories of nursery life to wilted pieces of refuse, crying to return into the earth. I had expressed that concern with him. Still, Deacon encouraged me to take the leaves. He was confident that they would be fine in my care.

So I took them, planted them, watched them take root and grow.  In time, leaf after leaf budded upon the ever-spreading vines and grew and flourished. Through this, Deacon taught me many things—not only about generosity, but also about the power of fixing my eyes upon the beauty of, and tending to the gifts of, nature. Of seeing how something could still thrive in the midst of challenging and sometimes adverse situations. Of the resiliency of things that are purposed to happen.  Of how that we can sometimes shortchange our sense of what we can do.

From time to time, Deacon would ask me about the plant, about how it was coming along. I would provide him with a testimony of its remarkable growth.  I even brought the plant for him to see just before my graduation in 2013. He didn’t seem surprised that the plant had thrived through the years. I was amazed at his confidence in me.  In hindsight, maybe his confidence was not solely in me, but in God working through me.

Later I began to hear and learn that I was not alone. That Deacon Roy had bountifully inspired, encouraged, and comforted others at HDS.  I am so glad that upon his retirement in the fall of 2013, we gathered in the Braun Room, and had an opportunity to share our appreciation and publicly thank him. I could tell that he was deeply moved.

Just recently as I walked across the HDS campus, I noticed the visual changes that have occurred on the grounds. I thought about Deacon Roy and his role in making the HDS campus such a beautiful and tranquil place in the midst of the academic bustle. He was seldom still, except when he was praying for us. His hands and feet were ever moving from task to task, place to place. I sensed that even as he was moving buckets and bins and chairs and tables, he was doing it prayerfully. And in that same manner, he covered our souls.

I grieve now because Deacon and I will no longer share physical space on earth. That I will not be able to update him on the plant’s continued growth. Or even thank him again for how he blessed my life at HDS. But what I learned from him—about ministry and faith, about intentionally gazing upon and tending to the beauty and lessons of nature, about the trusting of a God working through and within me—will live on. And I thank God for the precious gift of having known, been graced with, prayed with, laughed with, and witnessed the abounding faith of Deacon Roy.

Arleigh Prelow graduated from Harvard Divinity School in 2013 with a master of divinity degree.