Request to Remember

I knew he was sick. The close-knit network of alumni, friends, and colleagues at Wittenberg University made sure I knew, but hints of the situation had already traveled to my inbox and my texts long before then. 

Dr. Richard “Dick” Veler, a Mark Twain expert, pastor’s kid, and a beloved, longtime English professor at Wittenberg, had officially retired five years earlier after 40-plus years of service to his alma mater. During his amazing tenure, he supported presidents, the university’s board, his fellow faculty, and those most dear to his heart, his students, in whom he inspired a love of learning that lasted long after Commencement. 

I had the privilege of interning for Dr. Veler as a student at Wittenberg and taking a class with him. He also was my independent study advisor and academic advisor, so I had the chance to get to know him during my college days as did so many classmates in the English program at the small Ohio liberal arts school.

Whether one of his students graduated 25 years ago or a mere two, Dr. Veler remembered each one with many still receiving Christmas cards well after earning their degrees. (Mine can still be found in a keepsake drawer, one of far too many collection spots in my house.)

Standing at maybe 5’5”, Dr. Veler would routinely enter class donning a tweed jacket atop a traditional collared shirt and tie. Suits were also common for the dapper, distinguished professor, who always had his small container of Binaca breath-freshening spray concealed in his interior jacket pocket.

Classes taught by Dr. Veler showed his love of teaching, created interesting conversations, and revealed his compassion for others. We didn’t just read literature; we embodied it. We developed our writing skills, too, for as Mark Twain once said, “When all else fails, write what your heart tells you. You can’t depend on your eyes when your imagination is out of focus.”

At the same time, his ever-present smile in class and as he crisscrossed campus revealed something many seek but often struggle to find — their passion. If truth be told, Dr. Veler actually discovered his passion for learning as a child through family dinner conversations and through his mother’s own love of reading.

With teaching calling to him as a possible career path, Dr. Veler eventually chose the Lutheran-affiliated Wittenberg for college, graduating four years later in 1958. A master’s degree from Harvard University where he was a Woodrow Wilson Fellow, and a doctorate from The Ohio State University would come next before he settled into life in Wittenberg’s hometown of Springfield, Ohio, to teach future generations the power of literature and the role it plays in shaping our understanding of the world and of ourselves.

Like all great works of literature, however, the chapters push us forward into defining moments that make us pause and reflect. One such moment was in the spring of 2016 when Wittenberg’s version of “telephone” whispered that Dr. Veler’s health was failing. 

The professor who could quote Twain with ease was now forced to write an unfamiliar book that he could no longer edit to perfection. I did the only thing I believed I could do after learning the news—there, in the early morning hours before the sun arose on a Saturday with a fresh cup of coffee by my side, I wrote him a letter. 

I shared how much he inspired me to find my voice through the written word. I recalled the time I was stressing as I took one of his tests, which he actually noticed and then asked me to step outside the class for a minute to give me a pep talk and tell me it would be OK. I thanked him for all the encouragement over the years, for giving his heart to every class and every student, for caring about my family and others, and for just being a listening ear as I continued to climb the proverbial ladder in my career.

Another week or two would pass after placing that heartfelt note in the mail before I received word that he was up for a call. Dr. Veler always preferred face-to-face conversations, but the phone would have to do this time. We scheduled the chat for a Wednesday afternoon, and the call started as every conversation often did with his chipper voice asking first and foremost, “How are you? How is John? How are the girls?” 

This was vintage Dick Veler. Even after the love of his life, Suzanne, was called home in December 2009, Dr. Veler never complained or allowed the spotlight to shine on him. His humbleness of spirit and his heart for service were simply too strong to allow a moment for dwelling on his own issues.

I answered each and every question, and then I asked my own with the last one being, “How are you doing, Dr. Veler?” In his typical fashion, he answered in the most positive way he could, yet it was clear that he knew the ending already.

He then did something that I will never forget. He said he needed me to do one last assignment for him: “I would like you to write my obituary.” 

Floodgates immediately opened on the phone that day as the magnitude of his request took hold. With tears now streaming down my face, I choked on my words as I thanked him for everything, telling him that his impact would never be forgotten. In classic Dick Veler-style, he thanked me in his kind, soft voice, saying that he knew I would get it right. He then said what would be his final words to me: “I’m proud of you, Karen.”

I still cannot adequately describe the emotions that transpired in that moment or what went into that assignment. So often we move through life in a numb-like state, checking off our daily to-do lists and trying to tame the world’s endless spinning. But not then. That time required the stillness God calls us to embrace. 

More than three years have passed since the Lord called Dr. Veler home on August 4, 2016, but I hope my favorite professor knows how much he meant to me and so many, not just in how he listened, cared, and taught, but in how he passed his incredible light onto me and countless others by the way he lived.

And that is a gift I will forever be grateful for this holiday season and always.

- Karen Gerboth