Jealous

A few days after my Dad’s death, I found myself roaming around a clothing store at the outlet malls. It sounds like a rather trivial thing to do after a traumatic loss, but I needed something, anything to find temporary relief from the sadness I felt. Attempting to escape from my grief, I was doing anything and everything to just keep my mind off of the horror that had filled the past week. I was trying to do little things, step by step, that I had done in my life before losing Dad, even though I experienced unrelenting guilt anytime I engaged in an activity that felt like I was “moving on.” Life was moving on to a new, emptier normal as much as I didn’t want to admit it. I didn’t like it, but I couldn’t stop it.

As I walked around the clothing store attempting to distract myself with shirts and hats and things that felt absolutely pointless now, I realized that my mind was super attuned to the many fathers and sons inside the store. They had always been there, but my mind had never had a reason to pay much attention to them before. Today, however, was different. Today, there were fathers and sons seemingly everywhere inside the store, and I was fatherless for the first time in my life. No matter which way I turned, they were constantly in my face.

I watched them all—closely and intently. I noticed how they interacted with one another. I watched as they showed one another different pieces of apparel. I saw how they joked together. I listened to their conversations, from the seemingly mundane to the more serious and complicated.

Realizing that I was without my Father in a public setting for one of the first times in my life, I did my best to try and get away from the different groups of fathers and sons that I saw throughout the store; but no matter where I moved, I couldn’t escape them. Everywhere I went, I seemed to encounter another father and son.

After a few unsuccessful dodging attempts, I found myself standing at a t-shirt rack with a father and his teenage son nearby, and I began to listen to their conversation back and forth, as much as I really didn’t want to. I knew, immediately upon looking at them, that his son was extremely disinterested—in both the activity of shopping, but more painfully, disinterested in his father.

To his credit, this particular father was doing everything he could to engage his son in a conversation; and his son, as some teenagers are prone to do, looked like he wanted to be hanging out with anyone else but his dad in that moment. Although he was trying to mask it, I could tell that this father was deeply hurt by the way his son was acting. I could see a level of longing for a previous chapter in life—a chapter during which his son had once adored him. There was a longing to be a father of a young, innocent boy again—a longing that would never be resolved. I could tell that this father, as unsuccessful as his efforts might have been, refused to give up on recapturing his son’s love and adoration. His efforts, however, were largely fruitless, and his son did everything he could to escape his dad’s presence.

I kept watching, and as the dad attempted to engage his son more and more, the son grew angrier and more hurtful. He began rolling his eyes at his dad behind his back. He snapped at his dad whenever he was asked a question that he perceived to be ridiculous—which just happened to be every question that his dad asked. Eventually, the young man started disrespecting his father at a level that was unconscionable and uncomfortable for those of us standing nearby—especially me.

And I just couldn’t take it anymore.

Without even realizing what was happening, I found myself getting emotional. My face was red and hot, and tears were forming at the corners of my eyes. I wanted to get away from them, but I also couldn’t stop watching them and wishing that this young boy would just shut up. I was anxious and uncomfortable and angry all at the same time.

I hung the shirt I was holding back on the rack and briskly walked out of the store, leaving the disrespected father and his disrespectful son in the rearview mirror.

I walked quickly through the parking lot, making a beeline towards my car as I felt more tears coming on. Within a few seconds, I got in the driver’s seat and slammed the door shut, and I began sobbing hysterically and pathetically. I sat there, slamming my fist against the steering wheel multiple times and letting out more than one anger-laced yells. It was embarrassing and humiliating, but these were raw emotions that I just couldn’t hide in that moment, just a few days removed from my Father’s tragic death. I was furious. I was deeply saddened.

More than anything, I was jealous.

After losing Dad, jealously was not one of the emotions I expected to struggle with, but it had hit me hard just a few days after Dad’s death. I didn’t realize how cognizant I would be of all the fathers and sons in the world around me. I didn’t expect that every single time I saw a father and son walking around a mall doing something as simple as shopping could well up deep-rooted feelings of grief-induced jealousy—but it did. I was going to the mall that day to try to escape from my grief, and the mere sight of a father and his son together made that impossible. I wondered when this would start to fade, but I knew that although the frequency might lessen, the feelings themselves would likely never entirely disappear.

My Dad was gone. It was a new, horrible reality that hadn’t yet sunk in, but I kept saying it to myself that day in the car, as if repeating it over and over again would make the reality of my new life less emotional. “Dad is gone. Dad is gone.” Over and over again, I found myself repeating what I had lost in my life—my Father, my mentor, my friend. My heart filled with despair as I thought about all of the great times that we had together during his life—times that would never, ever be repeated.

And I admit it—I was extremely jealous of those young men I had seen throughout the mall that day. Many of the fathers and sons I saw in the mall that day were happy. I saw young children laughing as their fathers chased them between stores or made funny noises. In the food court, I saw dads sharing meals with their children just like Dad and I had done so many times before. I saw fathers with their adolescent children talking and chatting and carrying on good conversations. I saw older fathers with their adult children (and even grandchildren) just appreciating one another’s company.

And I was really, really jealous of those families and what they had together.

I was longing for moments that I felt were stolen from me. My Dad was a loving Father, and we deserved to have more time with one another. True, no amount of time with a man like my Dad would ever be enough, but I just knew that I wanted—and deserved—more. We deserved to be able to enjoy different phases of life together that were still to come. I wanted to see him on my wedding day (and the look of disbelief that would be on his face when I would tell him that I was getting married). I wanted to be able to, someday, tell him that he was going to be a grandfather. I wanted to watch his childlike antics as a grandfather, and I would have appreciated everything he would have done to be silly and goofy and funny with little ones running around him. I wanted to be able to see him get a promotion—which he so desperately deserved—at work, and I wanted to be able to honor him when he eventually celebrated his retirement. And yes, I wanted to watch him grow old.

That day at the mall was like a flash-forward into the life I could have had, the life that would never be but should have. With every father and son I observed, I was reminded of those moments of life that had either passed too quickly or were stolen from us too hastily. With every father and son, I saw a vignette into the world that, for some reason, I would not be blessed with.

I sat in the car trying to process my feelings. It was tough to admit, but in those moments, some of the nastiest emotions of jealousy bubbled to the surface, and I wondered why an undeserving brat like the young man I had witnessed was still allowed to have his father while mine was buried just a few days earlier. I found myself wanting to say something to that young man. I wanted to walk up to him and tell him to quit acting like such a little jerk, because he had no idea how lucky he was to still have his father in his life. I wanted to tell him that he should think twice about being so disrespectful to a man he had likely once idolized and would someday miss. I wanted him to feel a sense of regret for his despicable, thoughtless, self-centered behavior.

I also wanted to tell him that I spoke from experience, because I now found myself regretting all of the moments when I had treated my Dad similarly; and in that moment, I realized that I wasn’t as angry at that young man as I was angry at myself for not always giving my own Father the respect he rightfully earned.

I was a largely respectful kid, but I was also a teenager. As most teenagers do, I went through my “too cool for parents” phase. Although my Dad was fairly non-intrusive compared to most parents I had seen, he definitely enjoyed being around me and my friends, even when I didn’t always enjoy or appreciate his company. There were times when my Dad would be around, innocently and joyfully, and I just wanted to be with my friends—not him. It’s so painful to admit this; especially considering the fact that, now that he’s gone, I would give up just about anything to have a few more precious minutes and moments with him.

Time teaches us important and sometimes painful lessons, and it took losing my Dad to realize the true gifts of life, albeit too late to appreciate it with him. Losing my Dad has taught me to appreciate those who are in our lives while they are here. It’s a simple lesson, and I’m definitely not the first person who had to learn it the hard way. Unfortunately, it is a life lesson that many of us learn entirely too late because we don’t often learn it until the pain of loss sets in.

Although I’ve grown in many ways since losing Dad, those feelings of jealousy are still just as real almost six years removed from his death. I still have moments similar to that day at the outlet mall when I will spot a father and son and those feelings of jealousy will creep to the surface. I still observe interactions—mostly beautiful ones—between fathers and sons that will bring me to inexplicable tears. I want what they have, and I don’t understand why God felt that calling my Dad home to heaven so prematurely was necessary. There are many days when I long to be a little boy again. I wish desperately for those moments when I could swim in the backyard pool with my Dad, or ride bikes with him, or laugh at television shows with him, or just be with him.

But I know that whatever that ultimate plan may be, and no matter how jealous I might feel of other fathers and sons at times, I cannot lose sight of the fact that I spent 26 wonderful years with a simply amazing Father in my life.

I remember talking with one of my Pastors, Dave Hicks, shortly after losing Dad. At the time of our phone conversation, I was worried about going back to work. My job requires me to meet with lots of students and families who come to campus. Oftentimes, those meetings are pleasant, but on occasion, there will be instances where students grow visibly frustrated with their parents asking embarrassing questions—as all parents are prone to do in the college admission process. Students will roll their eyes, or sometimes even admonish their parents when they grow extremely frustrated with their actions. In my early career, I became rather accustomed to these types of meetings; but now, things were different. I had lost my Father, and I knew that I would likely react differently when I observed these interactions. I was worried that I might start to get inside my own head when I saw students treating their fathers with disrespect, and I was afraid that these scenarios would trigger unpleasant memories, making it hard for me to do my job. On the flip side, it was also difficult for me to watch parents who might come in and are disinterested in their children, because I lost a Father who was always, always interested in my life.

I was sharing these concerns with Dave, and I finally broke down and told him what was at the heart of my worry and anxiety.

“What am I going to do when I interact with a student being mean to their Dad? I know that I’m going to be jealous and it’s really going to upset me,” I said.

“You’re going to rejoice in the fact that, for 26 fantastic years, you had the best Father the world has ever seen—and no one, not even death, can take that away,” Dave responded.

That comment shifted my perspective on that day, and it’s been an important reminder in the years of recovery after his death. Although jealousy is a natural feeling when losing a loved one, we also can’t lose sight of what we were fortunate enough to have. Although natural, I also realize how selfish my primal feelings of jealousy were after losing Dad. It was true—I didn’t deserve to lose my Dad at such a young age. But Dad didn’t deserve to die the way he did. And the father I saw in the store didn’t deserve to be treated the way he was. And, in most every situation of life, none of us deserve the pain we are subjected to.

But we also don’t deserve God’s love—yet He still continues to love us anyway. Our actions often run counter to the life He designed and taught us about through his Son, Jesus Christ. No matter how undeserving we might be, God continues to pursue us—and I will always be thankful for that message. When it comes to loving God, there have been sinful times in my life when I’ve been absolutely no different than that punk in the clothing store. In spite of all my transgressions and selfish attitudes, God has kept loving me; and it’s a reminder that not time, not space, and not even death by suicide can separate me from the love my Father gave me while he was here on earth.

I’m thankful that, albeit shorter than I would have liked, I had a Dad who loved me unconditionally each and every day of his life. I’m fortunate that I had a Father who took an active interest in everything I did, even though there were times when I didn’t give him the respect that he deserved. And I’m thankful, more than anything, that my Father’s memory and legacy continue to guide and teach me each and every day of my life. My heart is hurt, and it’s still hurting years removed from the day that the pain of losing him was inflicted; but my heart is only full of jealousy because of the magnitude of my loss. I lost my Father on that day, but I’ll never, ever lose my love for him.

Dad and Me Stump Picture with SB LogoDad, Of all the difficult things that have happened since losing you, watching other fathers and sons has likely been the hardest. I still get jealous when I see other fathers and sons enjoying life together, because deep down I feel that you and I were robbed of precious time spent with one another. I don’t always know how to deal with these feelings, but you taught me to appreciate what we have in life more than longing for what we don’t have. And for all the experiences and moments that we might not have been able to share with one another, the 26 years that we did spend together as Father and Son here on earth were always filled with life, adventure, appreciation, and love. You taught me that it’s okay to be hurt and to not know all of the answers, but that in spite of that hurt, we should strive to love others at all times. And Dad, in spite of the pain I still feel to this day, I often ask God to teach me how to love others like you did. Although I still experience jealousy, it’s always coupled with an unfailing sense of longing for what is to come—a heavenly reunion in which I’ll be able to tell you, again, how much I loved you. Thank you, Dad, for always modeling hope. Thank you for giving me indelible memories that will never, ever be erased by the pain of jealousy. And thank you for loving me and everyone in your life with gusto. I love you, Dad, and until we can enjoy the gift of being near one another again, seeya Bub.

“A heart at peace gives life to the body, but envy rots the bones.” Proverbs 14:30 (NIV)

Overcoming the Fear of Failure: Guest Blog by Rev. Dan Walters

Ty: There’s a lot that we don’t yet understand about mental illness and depression. In fact, it seems the only thing experts can agree on is the fact that we don’t quite understand the complexity of mental illness. When we do recognize the complexity, however, we acknowledge that the root causes of mental illness for each individual person could be entirely different. For some, it could be entirely biological and physiological. For others, it might be a previous trauma that sparks their feelings.

And for some, it could be fear.

Fear is a natural feeling. We feel it when we are little and we cry in the darkness. We feel it as we grow into adolescence and worry about rejection. We feel it when the pressures of this world become too much to bear. And we feel it as we age and wonder about what lies beyond.

And sometimes, we feel it for no reason at all.

When we think about fear in the context of mental illnesses like depression and anxiety, it’s easy to see a connection. It’s easy to be afraid in a world that demands more and more of us each and every day. That fear can become paralyzing, and in my Dad’s story, that fear can become fatal.

Reverend Dan Walters is back to continue telling his story of battling with mental illness. I commend Rev. Walters for doing something that so many pastors are afraid to do. Dan is being vulnerable. Dan is being authentic. Dan is being courageous. And Dan is still giving glory to our God in the midst of his struggles.

He is speaking life into our suffering, and if you’ve arrived at Seeya Bub because you’re struggling, I hope you realize Rev. Walters is speaking directly to you.


Dan Walters: I recently wrote a book about “The Trap of Silent Depression.” It describes my story of depression caused by rejection from my significant others. I spent many years thereafter trying to prove to my rejecters that I was worthy of their approval. Many people are trapped in this prison of silence in hopes that someday they can hear the words from a mom, a dad, a family member, a teacher, a spouse or some other significant person from whom they have longed to hear and set them free from the silent disorder that lies within.

One of the greatest torments of many depressed persons today is their fear of failing. I know, because it was an ongoing torment in my own life. The fear of failing may be the result of various disorders and traumatic life situations. For me, it was the trauma of being rejected by a pastor and friend when, as a young man, I announced my call to ministry. What should have been a celebration turned into a ridicule. It was a sucker punch that I did not see coming, and the effects would have life changing consequences for years to come – which manifested itself in a silent, unspoken depression.

In my case, the fear of failing produced within me an almost constant anxiety, and became an irrational and abnormal driver to succeed. The problem with the “fear of failure” is while on the positive side it served to drive me onward, on the negative side it served to drive me downward and inward. In other words the “fear of failure” had a devastating effect on my physical and emotional being. Physically, I experienced ongoing anxiety and panic attacks, along with episodes of intense stress, which often times made it difficult to even breathe. Other times it caused chest pains that made me feel that I was having a heart attack. These physical effects required medications to partially control them. However, the medications required to control anxiety and panic attacks induced weight gain, which produced even more anxiety since I was already overweight. I gained 14 pounds in one month from one medication. It was a hopeless vicious cycle.

In my depressed state of mind, failure was not an option, which only intensified my fear of failing; and while this fear of failing was driving me to be successful in order to gain approval from my significant others, it was also driving me deeper into the prison of silent depression and despair. Note: Take into consideration that fear of failing is magnified for the person of a melancholy/perfectionist personality. Thankfully, there are various treatments today for the different types of fears. However, I would like to share with you some simple truths that set me free from the fear of failing and can help set you free from your fear of failing also.

First, understand that failure is universal, and everyone experiences it. Whether it be eating properly, brushing our teeth after each meal, obeying the speed limit, etc., the truth is we all fail at one time or another. Everyone fails – you are not alone. Thomas Edison, the great inventor once said, “I have not failed. I’ve just found 10,000 ways that won’t work.” So remember failure is not new; it’s been around for a long time. The Bible bears this out in the book of James 3:2 “For we all stumble in many ways…” If you were to do a study on the rate of humans who fail you would find that the failure rate is 100%. Everyone fails! This includes the great men of the Bible like Noah, Abraham, Jacob, Moses, David, and modern day people like you and me. Hebrews 4:15 reminds us that only Jesus, the Son of God has never failed. I read somewhere that “Failure is when you feel like your best just isn’t good enough.” But our best is good enough for God because we are made in His image.

The second truth to overcoming the fear of failure is to remember that failure is not final. Proverbs 24:16 teaches us “For though a righteous man falls seven times, he rises again…” The late Billy Graham said when he was asked to preach his first sermon he had prepared four sermons and he was so nervous he preached all four of them in under 10 minutes. Can you imagine if Billy Graham had said, “You know, I’m just not cut out for this. I don’t want to endure that kind of embarrassment again”? The world would have missed one of the greatest preachers of all time. Failure doesn’t have to be final. We need to learn to make the most of our mistakes. I heard a humorous story of a man who worked both as a veterinarian and as a taxidermist. The sign on his office door read: “Remember, either way, you get your dog back!” We must look for the positive side of failures – it is one of the ways we become successful. So, remember failure is not final.

Thirdly, try to recognize the benefits of failures. Romans 8:28 reminds us “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him…according to His purpose” – Yes, that includes failures! Failure isn’t special – everybody does it. But to learn from failure is special, and wise people learn from their failures. One benefit of failure is it often becomes a stepping-stone to trying something new. Remember Ray Kroc who failed in real estate and decided to start a restaurant franchise called “McDonalds.” Or how about Colonel Sanders who failed at everything in his life until he was about 70, and then started “Kentucky Fried Chicken.” Another benefit to failures is they tend to make us more sympathetic and less judgmental with others who fail.

Lastly, a sure way to fail is to continually compare ourselves with others – this is the root of a lot of our failures. We live in a competitive society…Everybody competes with somebody else…Parents compete with each other through their kids, through their sports, the clothes their kids wear, the stuff they buy, and the competition goes on and on. This is one of the downsides to Facebook. When you compare yourself with others, you set yourself up for the fear of failure. Speaker Beth Moore says “On Facebook we see only the highlight reels of other people’s lives, while we only see the behind the scene reels of our own lives.” It creates jealousy, and jealousy is the predisposition to failure. The Bible says “Each one should test his own actions. Then he can take pride in himself, without comparing himself to somebody else.” (Galatians 6:4).

Where in your life are you afraid of failing? Are you seeking someone’s approval like it was with me?  Maybe you fear failing in your future plans, or that new job interview. It could be a relationship, the fear of failing in your marriage or perhaps you are afraid of being single. Whatever the fear of failure you are dealing with today try this: Commit yourself to Christ by placing your faith in Him as your Savior, for the greatest failure is when we fail to respond to God’s love. And, remember that everyone fails, but we can overcome our fear of failing when we understand that failure is not final, and failures can be beneficial when we use them as stepping stones to something else, and particularly when we don’t compare ourselves to others.


Ty: I mentioned this in Rev. Walter’s first guest blog at Seeya Bub, but I so wish that my Dad would have been able to talk about their struggles with one another while Dad was alive. I think Rev. Walters would have given my Dad unbelievable perspective, encouraged him, and built him up in ways no one else could. Moreover, I think Rev. Walters would have been able to normalize my Dad’s fears.

I don’t claim to know exactly what caused my Dad’s death. In fact, I think it was a collision of multiple factors that all combined to create the whirlwind that made my Dad feel as if life wasn’t livable. But I do know that one of those factors was fear.

My Dad had a fear of being inadequate. He had a fear of letting people down. My Dad was a fixer his entire life. He fixed houses when they fell apart. He fixed our home appliances when they failed to work. He fixed ceiling fans and cars and well water pumps and lawn mowers. As a matter of fact, Dad’s job as a maintenance technician at Matandy Steel in Hamilton was to fix huge machines that processed steel products. Dad had an uncanny and impressive understanding of the mechanical world—one that I could study for my entire life and still not understand an ounce of what he did. When something broke, my Dad was the man with the answers. He was the man everyone came to when they wanted to figure something out.

And that’s why I think Dad was afraid. He was afraid to admit that there was something he couldn’t fix. He was afraid of letting people down. He was afraid and ashamed that the problem he couldn’t fix was his own.

But that’s the danger of mental illness; it falsely convinces us we are letting the people we love down, when the opposite is true. Mental illness isn’t self-induced. Like any other illness, mental illness is something we should never fault individuals for experiencing. And my Dad had nothing to be afraid of because he has never once let me down—in his life, or in his death.

You might be saying “That fear is irrational,”; and you’d be exactly right. But an irrational fear isn’t any less real in the mind of the believer. An irrational fear isn’t any less threatening. An irrational fear isn’t any less paralyzing. How many times have you been afraid of something that isn’t real or never happened? I can count at least six times that’s happened this week alone! In varying degrees, we are all afraid that we aren’t enough, that we won’t be enough, and that we don’t matter.

But God speaks truth to this lie. He tells us that He created us for a reason, and that our life matters. He tells us that we have the power, through Him, to overcome the challenges that face us. God doesn’t say we will be immune from challenges—that would be a fairy tale; but He tells us that He will always be by our side. He will be there with us through our fear, through our anxiety, through our sadness, and through our doubts.

And He also said he would put wonderful people at our side to help us in our struggles. I’m thankful that He’s put Rev. Walters in your life and in mine. And I’ll always be thankful that he gave me a Dad who never failed me—not once.

Dad and Seagulls with Seeya Bub LogoDad, There have been so many times when I’ve thought about the fear you must have experienced in your life. You were always my Superman—that strong rock and foundation in my life when everything else seemed dangerous. On the outside, you were always “Mr. Fix It,” and I know it bothered you that you couldn’t solve your own struggles with depression. On the surface, you always held everything together—for your family, for your friends, and especially for Mom and I. But Dad, I wish I could have told you that your struggles with mental illness were never a disappointment to any of us. We never thought less of you when you battled with your depression. Sick or healthy, we always loved you and wanted to be near you. You were never a failure to us, Dad. You never failed us, and I wish you had known that more. I am afraid of doing life without you. I have a fear that I can’t do what God is calling me to do to tell your story. But I know that He is with me, and I know that you are with me. I know that you are watching down and pushing me and urging me onward, just as you always did when you were here with us. We all miss you, Dad. We will never stop missing you. You never let me down, and I can’t wait to tell you that in person. Until that day, seeya Bub.

“So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” Isaiah 41:10 (NIV)

 Dan Walters HeadshotReverend Dan Walters

Dan Walters answered the call to preach in 1977 at age 31. He left secular employment in 1979 after fourteen years with the Ford Motor Company to enter full-time ministry. In 1982 Dan was ordained as an elder in the Church of the Nazarene and graduated from Mount Vernon Nazarene College that same year. He pastored churches in eastern Kentucky and southwestern Ohio. He retired in 2017 after almost 33 years as senior pastor of Tri-County Church of the Nazarene in West Chester, Ohio. Dan has been married to his childhood sweetheart, Darlene, for 53 years. They have three grown sons, Danny Scot and his wife Jenny; Darren Joel and his wife, Jody; and Devon Paul. They also have two wonderful grandchildren, Makenzie and Silas, who round out the Walters family. The family still resides in West Chester. Dan is co-author, with the late Stan Toler and Dan Casey, of an all-church discipleship program titled Growing Disciples. He has also developed a church leadership and growth program called “The G.R.E.A.T. Church.” Reverend Walters’ first book The Trap of Silent Depression: My Untold Story of Rejection, Depression, and Deliverance was published in 2018 and is currently available at Amazon.

First Responders: Guest Blog by Dr. Bob Rusbosin

Ty: There were voices, I’m not sure whose, asking me questions.

“Who should we call immediately? Who do you need here right now?”

I had just been told minutes earlier that my Dad had passed away, a victim of suicide at age 50. My mind had been cloudy, foggy, overwhelmed ever since I heard that horrible news. There seemed to be a haze hanging over me. I knew that time was ticking on, but I felt like I was standing still, unable to progress forward.

But to that particular question, my mind cleared in an instant and I was able to form a response. I knew right away, in the eye of that storm, the people outside of my immediate family that I wanted there in that moment.

“I need my pastor, Harville. And I need Dr. Bob.”

Harville Duncan had been there through so many ups and downs of my spiritual journey. He knew the ins and outs of my struggles and my triumphs, and most importantly, he knew my family. He had ministered to my Mom and Dad since they were young. He had been there for us whenever we needed him. It makes sense that a Christian would call for their pastor in the immediate aftermath of a family death as tragic as ours.

But it probably makes less sense to an outsider looking in for a four-years-ago graduate of college to call for their Dean of Students. But to me, it made all the sense in the world.

I came to know Dr. Bob Rusbosin as a nervous college freshman when I started at Miami University’s Regional Campus in Hamilton. Pure chance inspired our first meeting. After leaving my geology class in Mosler Hall, I spotted a sign with flyers below it that read “Interested in Joining the Student Government Association?”

I had never participated in student government before, but I had always wanted to. My nerves and general shyness in high school had bested me in that chapter, but I refused to let it beat me in this new one. I flipped through the packet, read through the guidelines, and spotted a contact number: Dr. Bob Rusbosin, Dean of Students, Miami University Hamilton.

bob-rusbosin-muh-timeline

Once I arrived home, I picked up the phone and called Bob. I told him who I was, that I was interested in joining the Student Government Association (SGA), and hoped he might be able to answer a few questions. What I thought would be a ten-minute phone conversation quickly turned into 30 with the promise of a meeting on campus the next day.

I immediately knew I liked Bob from the moment I met him. I didn’t know exactly what it was, but he was unlike anybody I had ever met before. He was in a powerful position of authority at Miami, but he was humble and full of generosity. He was in a position to be a teacher full of knowledge to impart to his students, but he asked more questions than he answered. He was responsible for overseeing and attending to the needs of thousands of college students, but in that moment he made me feel like I was the only person who mattered.

At his urging, I ended up joining the SGA. And I ended up hanging around Bob’s office as long as I could—for the next four years. Bob was more than a student government advisor. He was a teacher when I needed to learn a lesson. He was an encouraging coach when I doubted myself. He was an advocate for me whenever he saw an opportunity I should take advantage of. Ultimately, Dr. Bob was always the person who would be there for me whenever I came calling. Just being there is one thing, but being entirely there to support someone else in every single moment is a trait we should all strive to develop. Bob embodies this trait better than anyone.

bob-three-amigos


 Bob: When Ty called me that fateful morning in late July 2013, he was completely devastated, distraught and beside himself in a way that I had rarely experienced ever before in my life.  Ty was able to tell me through his uncontrollable sobbing that his Dad was dead.  He told me that it had just happened at his Mom and Dad’s house, that Becky was at work when it happened but was now there but in a state of shock and that his grandfather was there with him.  I was in my office at Miami University Hamilton and I told him that I would come over immediately.  He thanked me profusely.

I did not hesitate in telling Ty that I would be there for him in his time of need.  Tyler and I forged a bond that started at the end of his senior year in high school.  He is the only high school student who ever called me to set up a meeting to discuss the Student Government Association (SGA).  Needless to say, I was duly impressed with this aspiring leader’s interest and enthusiasm in being a young activist on campus.  Little did I know that Tyler was someday going to be a model SGA President who would lead the organization with honesty, integrity, compassion and skills that were truly remarkable and noteworthy.

Tyler and I also bonded on a very personal level during our first meeting in my office shortly after that first phone call.  The meeting was going quite well and it appeared that Tyler was the real deal for the SGA until he suddenly realized that he was meeting with the proud father of an amazingly talented son from his bitter rival Hamilton High School who had scored a last second, game winning three point shot against his beloved alma mater four years earlier. He told of the intense hatred that he felt towards my son over the past four years because of that shot.  I told Ty how proud I was of Nate (and our daughter, Anna) for being great children and for their many amazing accomplishments including Nate’s memorable shot against Fairfield.  Ty was listening (one of his greatest attributes I later learned) and he immediately was able to put the dreadful shot into perspective and went home with every intent to filling out the SGA application.

Tyler was an exceptional student leader at Miami whose accomplishments always seemed to eclipse one another.  For example, he gave the best speech ever of all of the Communication 101 students as a freshman and this included all of the Oxford students as well as the regional campus students.  His communication skills were and still are top notch!  He developed the highly successful Campus Pride Initiative with the SGA on the Hamilton campus that was transformative and hugely significant in making the campus more vibrant, dynamic and visible.  He spontaneously presented on the Campus Pride model at a national conference for student government leaders and advisors in St. Louis.  He led campus-wide memorials for both 9/11 and the death of our hometown hero, Joe Nuxhall.  He was presented the notable President’s Distinguished Service Award for his service to the campus and the community.  He was the Voice of the Harriers for the basketball, volleyball and baseball games and was eventually tapped to fill in as the Voice of the RedHawks on the Oxford campus. This is when I first met Scott and Becky.  They were proud parents of their son and rightly so!

Ty told me a lot about Scott through the years.  I knew he was still playing basketball as was I and I kept thinking we would be meeting up somewhere on the courts but it never happened.  Ty told me about Scott’s tremendous work ethic and his ability to work with his hands on just about anything.  Ty told me about the love he had just being with his Dad that sounded so much like mine for my Dad.  When Ty called, I just had to be there.  Ty hugged me like he never wanted to let go.  I tried to console him and Becky as best I could.  Both seemed to be grateful for my presence.  I was so pleased that his grandfather and his pastor were there.  They were both saying good things and helping me feel welcome at this most challenging time for the family.  More relatives began to arrive and I eventually retreated to allow the family love and compassion to freely flow.

I see Scott in Tyler in many ways today–funny, loving, devoted, accomplished and very compassionate.  I was honored to be a mentor to Tyler during his undergraduate years at Miami and I am even more honored to have Tyler as a friend for life and now an almost brother to Anna and Nate!


Ty: I remember when Bob walked in that day. I saw him come through the foyer of our neighbor’s house, donning a blue polo and a look of complete, utter sympathy that I had seen him show to me so many times before. I broke down and fell into the arms of a man who had been a father to me at Miami. That hug lasted for a long time, but although our embrace did eventually end, the support, love, and care he exuded in that moment never has.

Yes, there were medical first responders and law enforcement officials on the scene who did an outstanding job attending to the situation. But there were also folks that I think of as emotional first responders that were there to support and care for me, my Mom, and my entire family.

Some people make good first responders, and others are born for it. Dr. Bob Rusbosin was born for it.

It’s no surprise that Bob Rusbosin is originally from Latrobe, Pennsylvania. Latrobe, for those who don’t know, is also the hometown of television icon “Mister” Fred Rogers. Dr. Bob and I have always had a mutual admiration for Fred Rogers, so much so that we traveled to Latrobe and the Greater Pittsburgh area to conduct research on our favorite television educator as part of my graduate studies. We met with people who knew Fred, including Bill Isler from the Fred Rogers company, Fred’s high school classmates, and many others.

bob-and-ty-mister-rogers-statue

Fred Rogers had an uncanny ability to talk about tragedy and make folks feel loved. Take a look at your social media feeds the next time that a large-scale tragedy strikes, and I’m sure you’ll find one of his more famous quotes posted and reposted over and over again:

“When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’ To this day, especially in times of disaster, I remember my mother’s words and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers—so many caring people in this world.” (Mister Fred Rogers)

People say that Fred Rogers was one of a kind and that we will never see anyone like him on this earth ever again, but I have to disagree with those people. Those people haven’t met Bob Rusbosin.

In so many ways, from his personality and mannerisms to his genuine heart for others, Bob Rusbosin has always reminded me of Mister Rogers; but the similarity was even more recognizable in this tragic chapter of my life. Bob Rusbosin is the helper that people should always look for, and he was the person I knew that I could count on in my darkest, scariest moment.

bob-working-with-students

I rarely speak in absolutes, but I will on this topic: It’s impossible to grieve and cope successfully in complete and utter isolation. We aren’t built that way. You can consult any psychologist or scientist, or you could also read your Bible, but either way you’ll come to this same conclusion. We need great people in our lives—people I call “emotional first responders”—to help us navigate these treacherous waters. Bob Rusbosin was, and still is, that person for me. Bob became an ideal helper and first responder for a number of different reasons:

He was there. I had no doubt that I could call Bob and he would drop everything he was doing to come help me. I wasn’t guessing that he would show up; I knew he would be there. I was confident that Bob would be there because he had a track record of being there. Over the years, I had dealt with questions and moments of uncertainty, and Bob had always been there to listen to me and care for me. He had developed a level of trust with me in a way that no other educator ever had. And I saw that his trust was more than a professional promise.

He accepted me for who I was in that moment. As you can imagine, college students deal with all sorts of different crises, from small disagreements with friends and family to larger, existential questions about their career and life purpose. Bob had seen me at my best, but he had also seen me at my worst numerous times. Bob is authentic and he is always genuine, and I knew that there was no wavering when it came to his core values. That reliability provided the stability I needed in a moment where it felt like my world was falling apart.

In the aftermath of my Dad’s death, I was (predictably) a mess. I was having trouble breathing. My vision was blurred. I would collect my emotions and then sob uncontrollably when someone else came into the house. I am thankful that I felt the freedom to be myself, my grieving self, in front of Bob. And it was only because he had spent so much time and honest energy getting to know me as a student that I felt free to be this unpolished version of myself in front of him.

He didn’t try to solve the problem. When Bob came into my neighbor’s house, he didn’t try to take control of the situation. He didn’t try to collect information about what had happened. He just came in, said hello to me, and hugged me. He sat in a chair across from me, and as he had done so many times, he just listened. No one had answers in the aftermath of my Dad’s death, and as much as Bob wanted to be my protector, he didn’t pretend to have answers either.

For an educator, it only seems natural to want to help people and try and solve their problems—but Bob understood that the best way he could help me was not to try and provide answers but to instead support me as I tried to find them on my own. There would be no quick answers, and there definitely wouldn’t be any just an hour or so out from the tragic news. So Bob, always patient and always kind, let the grieving process slowly unfold in front of him without trying to put a band-aid over a fatal wound.

He asked how he could help. In moments of tragic loss, especially death, I think we all feel a little uncomfortable when we ask grieving folks “Is there anything I can do to help you?” It seems strange, but in my situation it was particularly reassuring to have so many people offer to help me—even if my response to them was no.

Before he left the house that day, Bob made sure to ask me if there was anything I needed his help with. The gesture alone was enough to tell me that although my Dad, my provider, was gone, there would be people that would attempt to try and fill the voids that were now left in my life. And to my surprise, there were some things I needed immediate help with and I knew that I could trust Bob to accomplish them. I needed someone to communicate with my colleagues at Miami and let them know what was happening—and that I wouldn’t be at work for quite some time. I needed someone to call my graduate school faculty advisor, Peter, and alert him to the emergency happening at home. There were a few other folks who I needed to notify, and Bob agreed to take on all of this responsibility. I couldn’t imagine making some of those calls to try and explain to people what had happened when I couldn’t even explain it to myself. Bob was willing to shoulder this burden, and it made me feel so loved.

He called later to follow through and check on me. Bob is one of those rare individuals who thinks about others more than he thinks of himself. Bob fulfills the commands of Scripture that tell us “Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ” (Galatians 6:2, NIV). Bob didn’t just show up that morning to be there for me in the moment—he showed up to show me that he was there for the long haul. Later that day, Bob called me to see how I was doing and how I was coping. He also updated me and let me know that he had fulfilled his promise to help me reach out to folks at Miami. But he was more concerned with how I was doing and what I was thinking, and he also shared some great memories of my Dad. It was unbelievably encouraging to hear his voice and know that he would always be there to help.

And yes, he brought ice cream. Bob knew that I loved ice cream. Specifically Graeter’s ice cream. Later that evening, I awoke from an unsuccessful attempt at a nap to learn that Bob had been back to the house to check on me and my entire family. He had stayed, getting to know all of the folks in the house that had visited that day. I had missed getting to see him, but his gestures of kindness were still there even though he had left.

“Ty,” my Grandma told me, “Bob brought you some ice cream. Your favorites from Graeter’s. The pints are in the freezer whenever you get hungry.” There are few things in this world more beautiful than a pint of Graeter’s ice cream, and Bob knew how I felt about this. Although life did not feel normal in that day, there was something beautiful about knowing that some of the things that represented a normal life, like ice cream, would still be there even though my Dad wasn’t. I didn’t eat much that day, but I did take a few bites of ice cream. I’m glad it was there, but more importantly I’m glad Bob was there.

I thank God for a lot of reasons each and every day, but near the top of that list I thank God for leading me to the stairwell on the campus of Miami University Hamilton where I picked up a student government flyer. I thank God that he led me to call the number of the Dean of Students and go meet with him. I thank God that he used my time in student government to help forge a friendship with one of the finest men he has ever put on this earth. And I thank God that he gave Bob Rusbosin the heart of an emotional first responder: authentic, vulnerable, and genuinely loving in every sense of the word.

We all need someone like Bob in our lives. When you hear the words that tell you your Father (or any loved one) is dead, you need people to surround you who can help you walk when you fall and who can help you stand when you feel as if you might never stand again. I’m thankful that God prepared Bob for that moment and chapter of my life by giving him such a tender and thoughtful spirit. He has been there ever since, and I know that any time I call, he will always be there to respond first.

In the days where I need my Dad and realize that he can’t be here for me, I’m grateful that I have Bob Rusbosin—a man who has become a father-figure to me whenever I need him.

Dad, Your death has left a huge hole in my heart and in many areas of my life. There are particular voids that will never be filled until I’m reunited with you on the other side of Eternity. But I am so thankful and so grateful that God positioned certain people in my life, like Bob Rusbosin, to help be there for me when you couldn’t. I know you’re in heaven watching over me, and I know that you are making sure that there are good people and helpers to fill in for you while you’re not here. Keep watching over me, Dad. Keep connecting me with your angels here on earth. I may be grown, but there are days when I need my Dad more than ever. I know how highly you thought of Bob, and I know that if you had a chance to hand-pick someone to fill your shoes, that man would be Bob. We all miss you, Dad, but we are all thankful that you are in a place where the pains you experienced in this life are no longer there. Until we are together again, keep watching over me like you always did when you were here. Seeya, Bub.

“Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn.” Romans 12:15 (NIV)

bob-rusbosin-headshotBob Rusbosin

For nearly 30 years, Dr. Bob Rusbosin served as the Dean of Students for Miami University’s Regional Campuses. In this capacity, Bob supported tens of thousands of students as an advisor for the Student Government Association, and oversaw all aspects of student life services, including student activities, athletics, counseling, disability services, career services, diversity and multicultural services, new student orientation, judicial affairs, and child care. A lifelong proponent of civility, Bob helped a group of students at Miami found “Project Civility”, which dramatically improved the campus climate at Miami and became a national model for character education. After a successful career in higher education, Bob is now enjoying his retirement in Venice, Florida where he lives with his wife, Sharon. Bob earned his Ed.D from Indiana University of Pennsylvania, his MAT from the University of Pittsburgh, and his BA from the University of Dayton.