Eulogy by James Cross, delivered May 27th, 2018
I'd like to say some words about Rusty.
A tall order, since there are so many things to say about him, so many stories to tell, so many people he loved and loved well, and who loved him to the heavens.
And there's something more -- there is something about him that defies easy explanation, something in the way he was in the world, that was different from anyone else we knew, that was extraordinary.
Rusty went into life at full tilt.
He didn't do the expected, the carefully calculated, the automatic things. He seemed to want to feel what it was like exploring the outer contours of life, and he did it not recklessly, but with some kind of sureness, as if he had some insight about it that the rest of us weren't seeing.
I think of
Mrs. Robert's English class, and Rusty the popular philosopher at the back of the class with an uninvited daily "thought for the day," seeing the bookish newcomer at the center of the first row with his hand raised, and he saw something there, some potential, and took me in with open arms, and my life hasn't been the same since.
I think of
racing -- stock cars, motorcycles, skis, horses -- seeing life presenting him with a challenge and a risk, and not only taking life up on it, but going all in, full throttle into turns and jumps.
Sometimes resulting in spectacular crashes that would have scared most of us off of the activity for life, but not him.
I think of
business ideas and inventions -- he would come up with how to do something in a new way, and in no time he would be in New York City, building an internet telephony business.
And all with an undercurrent of laughter,
of humor and mirth at this vertiginous adventure.
Part of it perhaps was that Rusty was good at just about anything he tried, from sports, to dancing, to acting, to inventing, to music, to anything involving high speeds -- he got into horses and in no time was leading the hunt in a red jacket.
And oh my, his humor -- there was no conversation that he could not enliven with unexpected puns or jokes or surprising ironies.
Maybe part of it was how much he loved life,
both the familiar things and the new. He loved Abingdon, he loved the farm and his horses, he loved doing things he'd never done before, he loved getting back into the saddle after being thrown out of it.
Maybe part of it was
that it seemed to me that Rusty was often looking for what wasn't being seen, for the other side of the expected, for the far side of risk that was hiding behind probability, for beauty and excitement that hadn't been felt yet, for something bigger, for that part of hope that was real. I think he could somehow see it. It reminds me of St. Paul in Ephesians: having the eyes of your heart enlightened, so that you may see the hope to which He has called you.
One of the most extraordinary things about Rusty was his friendships.
I've never known anyone
with so many best friends,
with so many friends who, to a person, would say they'd never met anyone like him, and would go to the ends of the earth for him, and did.
I look out and see a phalanx of dearest friends,
and there are more, those who couldn't be here, and I am deeply moved by the treasure of friendship and love surrounding Rusty.
I don't think I can try to explain it -- there was something about him that made him so important to us, and made us love him. He was a great friend -- and perhaps part of it was this way of being in the world: being with him was an adventure; he would be the confidence for friends to take things up a notch or take a different path. And he encouraged us with his sense about the other side of the expected, helping us do things that we didn't even know we didn't think we could do (that kind of sounds like one of his thoughts for the day). And helping us to relish the moment we were in. Rusty came into the world with a gift, and he shared it with us, and we have it now.
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Cancer came to Rusty in the prime of his life.
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He went at it with ferocity,
full tilt, fighting it with weapons and ideas he had never known before, researching and trying treatments from all angles of attack.
And his friends and family and loved ones stepped into the breach -- Heather and his mother Betty, and Anne, and Sara and the other friends and family right here with us, and his doctors and nurses gave a precious gift of care, and fought by his side.
And in many ways he defeated cancer --
he defied cancer and its odds over
and over
and over again,
kept staying alive; became a pioneer in an experimental treatment that, thanks to his study, is a game-changer in the battle against cancer.
and kept living life
to its fullest.
He personally ministered to fellow sufferers, he gave encouragement to his doctors and nurses, he inspired pharmaceutical researchers and philanthropists. One of his many fine doctors, the one who spearheaded the immunotherapy experiment, told me that Rusty was an emblem of hope to many thousands of people.
I like that -- emblem of hope.
To me an emblem
is the insignia of a knight going into battle or on a quest, the colors of a rider on a steeplechase.
It's so people can see that their man is in the battle, is turning the backstretch, is there doing something they can't do without him.
And it tells us who he is riding for.
Rusty
was riding for
Hope,
and still is.
Godspeed, Rusty.
