~The Mission Foundation~

The Mission Foundation, August 31, 2011, “A Summer of Farewells” (Wil Mills, Chester Jenkins, and John Stott – a poet, a dairyman, and a theologian – true friends)

Dear friends,

For some of you, and for me, it has been a summer of farewells. It has been a season of difficult good-byes as very dear ones have made the great crossing ahead of us. As these summer days are coming to an end, my mind (and possibly yours) is filled with thoughts of true friendship.

What is a true friend? Well, there are many things that we might say about a friend, but there is one quality that is paramount in my thoughts this afternoon: A friend is one who takes the interests, the desires, and efforts of another very seriously. As I write this letter, I am thinking about three men who extended this true friendship to me (and to many others). I pray that sharing my own experience might possibly allow you and me to swing on the porch a bit and to give thanks to our Lord for recently departed friends, some of whom we knew for many years, others for fleeting but greatly treasured times. Now for the three.




The first was Wil Mills, son of our friends Wilmer and Betsy Mills, who left us to join his Lord at the age of only forty. Wil was a “renaissance man”: He was a widely acclaimed poet, an accomplished artist, a naturalist/woodsman, farmer, sawyer (who ran his own sawmill), woodworker, weaver of white oak baskets (from trees he himself felled), gardener, baker (who baked bread in a wood-fired bread oven he had made himself), guitarist, singer/songwriter, university lecturer (University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill where, at his request, all of his students called him “Mr. Wil”), and theologian (holding a theological degree). With his own hands, he built his very small but extremely elegant house which was once featured in Southern Living, and along with his wife Kathryn (also a university lecturer) and children Benjamin and Phoebe Agnes, he enjoyed every God-given pleasure both inside and outside that mountain home in Sewanee, Tennessee. Wil lived out his life before God with the beautiful simplicity about which Jesus has spoken to us all. But he also accomplished his final ambition: “I want to die well.” He died with the same grace with which he lived: he enriched us all to the very end. Shortly before his death, God gave me one last visit with Wil. He marshaled all of the strength available to his cancer-ravaged body and made his way to the living room of his parent’s home on the Mills farm near Zachary, LA. Out of desire to express my gratitude for all that he had done for me and for the friendship we had shared, as I sat on the hearth beside his chair, I read two poems that he knew I had been working on during the past couple of years. To my surprise, although he could barely speak, he began offering his customary, extremely helpful words which provided both correction and affirmation – words which I gratefully gathered in, knowing these unexpected gifts would be the last. Then I thanked him and thanked him for the way that he had always taken my efforts in poetry seriously and how his responses had caused me to keep on trying. A few days later, I wrote him a letter and hand-delivered it to the mailbox at the end of the long lane leading to the Mills home. His father later told me that he read my letter to Wil because he had grown too weak to read for himself. Because Wil Mills took my interests, desires, and efforts seriously, a window remained open and then opened even more widely to a world away from which I may have otherwise shrunk from lack of confidence. Thank you, Wil.




The second was my Uncle Chester Jenkins who took an interest in me as a young boy in great need of a man who would be enthusiastic about his efforts in athletics. I realize that games are not among the most important things in life, but at that time, they were very important to a boy who was trying to find his footing without the guidance of a father. I will never forget our Sunday afternoon chats in the dairy barn. I remember one Sunday in particular when Uncle Chester referred to the Friday night football game, saying, “I saw you . . . .” My chest swelled like the figure of the player on the Heisman Trophy! Unlike most of his other nephews (one of which was one of the Chinese Bandits on the LSU 1958 National Championship team), I wasn’t “all” anything except “all out”, but that was enough for him. He got a football scholarship for me to a community college in Mississippi, but I told him that I was planning to attend Louisiana State University where I was going to “walk on” (i.e., play without scholarship) in football. He then, as always, gave his full support to my effort and expressed it meaningfully in a private conversation about which I remained unaware for many years. These football matters represent only a small part of my uncle’s kindness to me. There is of course much more that I could write. But here is how it ended. On Saturday, August 6th, I was doing a little work on the old Wood farm in Franklinton and decided to cross the creek for a visit with my dear uncle whose 87th birthday party I was very sorry to have missed just a few weeks before, and I was heavily burdened about that. As we sat at his kitchen table (with his sister), I told him how sorry I was for my mistake regarding the date of his party. The burden of my guilt began to lift as he cranked up another great round of his often-told but still very much loved stories, and we smiled and laughed until I had to leave. I did not know that this would be our last laughter together. I give thanks to my Lord for a final crossing of the creek to see my Uncle Chester, a man who took my interests, desires, and efforts seriously. I will always hear his usual parting words: “I love you, boy.” Thank you, Uncle Chester.



Birdwatching on the cliffs of Pembrokeshire, near The Hookses, John's coastal hideaway in Wales

Finally, John Stott. It all began in the spring of 1984 when John Stott was willing to engage in correspondence with a young man that he did not know (a young man who actually didn’t know a lot about him either) and to carefully consider the expressed desires of this one who had only a little formal theological training and who had never served or studied outside of certain cultural and geographical boundaries. He allowed me (although non-ordained) to participate in what was then called “the clergy school” at the London Institute for Contemporary Christianity (of which he was the founder and director) in May of that year. While at that nine-day conference, he invited me not only to attend the London Institute but also to be a part of his tutorial group and to spend individual time with him. (What memorable times those one-to-one breakfasts would be at his flat at 12 Weymouth. Amd most unforgettable of all -- a certain vocation-guiding evening at his little dinner table in early '85.) Soon after receiving John's gracious invitations, I finalized the arrangements to take leave of absence from my work in Ruston, LA, and my family moved to England where the lives of the five of us (Bec, the boys, and me) would be forever changed as over the next twenty-seven years we enjoyed a friendship (and in the latter years co-laborship -- Langham Partnership International) that none of us could have ever anticipated. By the way, some of you good Southerners will be wondering at how I could call him John. Well, I submitted to his desire in that matter (along with the other London Institute students), but I could never bring myself to refrain from saying, "Yes, sir," which brought a smile and an echo from him in the early days of our friendship. Last year I had my final visit with my teacher, mentor, and friend. Among the first things that he said, and with clear disappointment, was “I thought Becky would be with you.” After we talked for a while, he said, ‘Rod, who could have expected all those years ago that we would have enjoyed the friendship that we have had.” Before leaving I asked if I might read a passage of Scripture, and he asked me to choose a text. My mind raced for a choice. I suggested chapter one of Ephesians. I felt a happy relief when, with delight in his voice, he pointed out to me that this was the theme passage for the Third Lausanne Conference to be held later that year in Cape Town, South Africa. When I finished the reading, he asked that I lead us in prayer. After praying I thanked him for all that he had done for me and for our family, and I told him that I loved him. This year, soon after his 90th birthday, I wrote what I knew would be my final letter to him. In view of his extreme frailty, I used only a few words, but I tried to pack in every expression of gratitude that I possibly could, trying to recap twenty-seven years of blessed friendship. I am so glad I wrote that letter. Long ago God introduced our family to a true friend – one who took the interests, desires, and efforts of all five of us very seriously. Thank you, my brother John.

Who are the men and women who have been your true friends? More importantly, how will you and I be true friends to the many, many people all around us who are waiting for someone to take their interests, desires, and efforts seriously? I hope you will stop to pray and ask God to open your eyes to see them and to expend the energy that is necessary to be their true friend.

One other thing – I hope you don’t miss your final letter or your final crossing of the creek (which by our Lord’s grace I didn’t with these three). Lift your pen. Place a call. Take a Sunday afternoon drive.

I give thanks to God for each of you. Go well, dear friends.

In the Savior,


Rod (for Bec and me)