My Father, bottom left … Susan’s Parents, back row

Today I learned that the final close personal link to a significant man in my life has died. Susan Rhoades was the daughter of my father’s oldest brother, Dr. Herb Schmidt.

My Uncle Herb orchestrated many pivotal moments of my family’s and my trajectory over the years.

Uncle Herb is the reason my dad, John, didn’t stay on a poor Kansas farm, and instead studied to become a doctor:

“He’ll not stay on this farm, Dad. He’s going to school to make something of himself,” Herb said when their father wanted twelve-year-old John to stay home from school to work the farm.

Uncle Herb is the reason my dad moved to Paraguay to found and manage the leprosy station where I grew up:

On May 19th, 1941, John received a telegram from Herb, informing him that the Mennonite Central Committee was searching for a doctor to serve in Paraguay. He’d known immediately that God was calling him to serve in that little-known South American country.

Uncle Herb is the reason my dad met and married my mother.

“Clara Regier is a nursing student at the Bethel Deaconess Hospital in Newton. Like you, she worked her way through school, and she comes from a family of efficient Mennonite people. One of her uncles takes many of the prizes at the county fairs of the best crops and livestock. She would make you a good wife,” Uncle Herb said to John in June of 1941.

Uncle Herb contributed a lot to the Mennonites in Paraguay, and traveled to visit us there numerous times when I was a kid. He seemed so worldly and rich. He brought this amazing American chewing gum for us. It came in thin strips that were wrapped in bright yellow paper, and inside of that another layer of silvery paper. It was called Juicy Fruit. I broke every strip into tiny pieces and made it last for weeks.

And Uncle Herb is the relative my parents entrusted to look after me when they sent me to the U.S. I was nineteen and more than a little lost. His daughter, Susan Rhoades, picked me up at the Wichita airport in August of 1970.

Here’s an excerpt from my forthcoming memoir:

As I deplaned in Wichita, I wondered how Uncle Herb’s daughter would know who I was. But for some reason, she seemed certain I was the one she was waiting for from the moment I walked into the terminal building. She waved at me.

Susan wore a pair of pure white shorts and a neatly pressed blouse. I looked down at my stained and crumpled blue pants and mismatched shirt and felt suddenly like the poor cousin from a third-world country that I was. My eyes scanned her perfectly manicured feet in dainty white sandals. I wondered if she even knew that there was such a thing as hookworms. Or itchy worms that sometimes lodged themselves in your butt.

“Hi Marlena. Welcome to the States,” Susan said, smiling and holding out her hand to me, her poor cousin.

“Hi. Thanks for getting me,” I muttered, still eyeing her perfect feet. “Where am I going?”

“I’m supposed to take you to Uncle Art and Aunt Frieda’s,” she said.

I wanted to ask her why I wasn’t staying with Uncle Herb. But instead I just stared at the floor in my clumsy discomfort.

Susan led the way to her car, a shiny new Chevrolet. I scanned the parking lot. Did everyone in the States drive brand new cars?

I dropped into the passenger seat, exhausted and disorientated. And suddenly very sad. I missed the cacophony of noisy blaring horns and barking dogs, the sweet, heavy, pungent odor of tropical flora, mixed with diesel fumes and smoke, and the pulsating vibrancy of the streets of Asunción. The highways here were so wide and clean. The air smelled like nothing. And no one honked.

…

Susan and I saw little of each other after that, as we moved through the middle-life busyness of working, raising kids and just generally being grown-ups.

Until about ten years ago. With the open vulnerability that older age granted us both, we began to share and stitch together the many threads we had in common: our larger-than-life fathers, our absent fathers, and yes, our wounded fathers.

You were my sister in every way that really counts, Susan. I am a better person for having known you. I will miss you personally for the wonderful presence you have been in my life. And I will also miss you as my last close personal link to my Uncle Herb.