B154. Shine Bright, Pink Moon

My phone rang at 10:00 PM. Trevor Williams, it said. I smiled. It must be a starry night. Trevor knew I shared his awe of the wonders of the night sky. This time though it was the moon. “Have you seen the moon?”, he asked, “Go outside,” and I did. As I looked at the bright moon in wonder, he explained to me the history of the “pink moon,” so named by Native Americans, not for its color but for a particular April flower. I thanked Trevor for calling to share with me, and we said good night and hung up, my heart still smiling at such a precious friendship.


I had met Trevor about five years earlier in 2012, shortly after I joined FPC. We attended Sunday School and small group together, and our souls quickly recognized each other as kindred, notwithstanding the almost four-decade difference in our life experience, he having then about 87 years.


I didn’t know Trevor in his prime, when he was a Navy Officer or medical then psychiatrist Dr. Williams. I didn't know Trevor as an FPC elder and Stephen Minister. I didn’t know his wife Jean or their three children, nor his grandchildren and great-grandchildren except through his stories.


The older Trevor I knew was a storyteller. He loved to talk about his life experiences, his family, something he had read in a book, or something recently featured in his Biblical Archeology magazine. I knew Trevor the wood carver, not from seeing him carve, but from hearing his stories, and reading about his carvings for Hood Seminary, and seeing the long wall of carvings in our own church hallway.


The past couple of years hearing was a struggle for him, so, even apart from his cancer challenges, I saw him less often. It’s frustrating to attend meetings or sit in the midst of conversation and be unable to follow. I sent him blue cards often, and we sometimes sent greetings back and forth through his wife (my friend) Gail.


This past November I visited them twice in their home. One visit we looked through two large scrapbooks of his vast life accomplishments: documents, awards, degrees, mementos: and next visit, at my invitation, he read aloud from his memoirs written in a class he and Gail had been attending. Then I last saw him less than three weeks ago when our small group met at their house. He greeted each of us cheerfully, with signature Trevor genuineness and kindness. Then he went to his bed to rest while we had our meeting. The pain was becoming less controllable, and he was easily exhausted.


Trevor would have turned 96 this coming April, the month of the pink moon. I will look for it.