EDITOR’S NOTE

On a Saturday afternoon in late winter, everything that is good about the human spirit stirred from the pews and the pulpit of Northaven United Methodist Church.

Humor, honesty, strength, morality, commitment-these qualities came into play that day, inspired by a man I had never met and would never meet. Tom Olson had died the previous Tuesday-now we were gathered for a “celebration” of his life.

I don’t usually go to memorial services for strangers, unless it is to share the grief of their children or sisters or brothers-my friends. But Olson wasn’t really a stranger; for years I had awakened to his voice on KERA radio.

Many mornings, still in bed and slowly shaking off sleep, I was first connected to the day by Olson’s no-nonsense reports on the most recent City Hall issues. In a few minutes, he would bring me up to speed; I might not like what I heard, but it wasn’t because of the messenger. No sophomoric or sensational reporting here, even when ludicrous events might beg for it. Tom Olson was a journalist’s journalist right down to the way he handled his departure from KERA last year. He was leaving the station, he told listeners, because he had AIDS and was no longer strong enough to work.

Like a lot of my colleagues and fellow KERA listeners, I was stunned and saddened. I didn’t know this man, and yet I did.

Fewer than six months later, he was dead.

Too often, the final examination and appreciation of a person’s life is impersonal and cursory. How many funerals or memorial services have we been to where the name is mispronounced or the words seem prepackaged or the family and friends are uninvolved?

Tom Olson’s goodbye was different.

In a simple, open sanctuary, Tom’s life was reconstructed in such detail it was as if a piece of needlepoint were being sewn right before us-the various threads coming into play as the people who knew him told their stories. All of this was set against a rich background of hymns and readings from John, Corinthians, The Psalms-“’Teach us to count how few days we have and so gain wisdom of heart.”

City Council member Lori Palmer, Olson’s brother John, Susan Harmon of North Texas Public Broadcasting, Inc., and KERA-90.1 station manager Michael Nitka spoke to Tom’s mind, his values, his importance to Dallas and his family. Each had a different tone and knowledge appropriate to his or her role in Tom’s life. Effectively, they were the primary colors of this portrait.

But it was the impromptu recollections that touched me, for these are the elements that define us all-the everyday vignettes that taken alone may not say much, but taken together tell what we really are, good and bad.

Speaking to everyone in the sanctuary, Northaven pastor John Thornburg asked if anyone would like to add his or her thoughts and memories. For a moment there was silence. Then, a co-worker stood to speak. Someone else followed, and soon the many observers and participants in Tom Olson’s life could not refrain. Some voices were strong, others broken, still others full of a pain that we all fear-that we know we are capable of feeling, too.

Olson’s brother and two of his sisters listened intently-how much can we really know about our siblings’ lives? They saw, through the eyes of others, Boy Scout days in Oklahoma, teen-age adventures in a Volkswagen bug, past relationships, Tom’s role as mentor, the death of a lover, the admiration of his fellow journalists, the depth of his knowledge on city issues, his calmness in the face of death.

A DART board member, a former city councilman, the father of a young journalist who now lives out of state, a St. Mark’s teacher whose class Tom visited to talk about AIDS, a co-worker whose once strained relationship with him had healed-each wove fresh, honest detail into the fabric of this life.

And when it was all over-when we had sung all the words to In Christ There Is No East or West and Sing with All the Saints in Glory-everything that is good about the human spirit filled the room. One man’s life had not been lost to death.