You wrote to me and said, “There was
     A man whose name was John,” because
You meant to celebrate that I
     Was seventy, and tell me why
Your heart was glad to mark the date
     And hour of nineteen eighty-eight
When you first came to Bethlehem.
     But now it is my turn. I am
The one who now writes, “There was
     A man whose name was Jon,” because
I mean to celebrate the date
     And hour of nineteen eighty-eight
When God, in his kind providence
     And grace, in order to commence
What none of us could even dream,
     Sent you and Pam to us. Extreme
As it may sound, ten million souls
     That day, and just as many goals,
Were in the mind of God, as you
     Not only came, but saw as true,
That God is great. You tasted then
     The sweet reality that when
The Lord decreed that his great name
     Should be exalted, and his fame
Spread like the wind, he also said,
     “For this I sent my Son. He bled
For this. It was his food: that he
     Be great, and you be glad to see
His glory. Blesséd, blesséd are
     The eyes that treasure this lodestar:
That Christ the more is magnified
     When you the more are satisfied
In him — in his great worth, his grace,
     His love, my shining glory in his face.”

You saw, you treasured, and you stayed.
     The first impression that you made
At Woodlake Camp, Noël recounts,
     Is that you looked — and this amounts
To nothing — like Fignon, who won
     The Tour de France. But you were Jon
Not swift Laurent. And there was more
     To see in you — so much in store
For us: a treasure chest of deep
     Affection, kindness, strength to leap
A hundred daunting barriers,
     And faith that says, “Nothing deters
The sovereign hand of God. Not one
     Of his good plans is left undone.”
And wisdom that would ripen through
     The years until, though younger, you
Would be for me a cherished friend
     And counselor. None saw the end —
The happy end — of what your years,
     Your more than thirty years, and tears,
Would bring, but we could see enough
     In you, the tender and the tough,
To make us say, “Come live with us
     In Phillips Neighborhood. The bus
Will shake your walls, the window wells
     Are bright, a happy fam’ly dwells
Upstairs, our door is open all
     The time, the monthly rent is small,
And needs abound, for as you know,
     The followers of Jesus go
Toward need, not comfort.” And to our
     Delight, you came, a blooming flow’r,
And filled, with the aroma of
     Your love, our busy home — a love
Encouraging in ev’ry way,
     And lingers (thank you) to this day.

And soon we were a team before
     We were a team. Spread on the floor
The people filled our living space
     And you led worship in your place
Beside the clock and gave a chance
     For Urban Missions in the Manse
To get its start. And then with your
     Dear friend, Joe Hallett, we made sure
Our statement for the BGC
     On homosexuality
Was biblical, compassionate,
     And real. And there is more: we met
With Jim and crafted there a dream,
     An Urban Training School, a scheme
To love our neighborhood. And then
     God birthed another vision, when
I asked you to assist me at
     The church, to wear another hat:
“Please, take these boxes of cassettes
     And then, avoiding sin and debts,
Make something happen for the good
     Of Bethlehem. And if you should
Run into trouble, well, then pray
     And trust; it doesn’t have to pay.
Just tell the folks that what they can
     Afford is what they give. Amen?”
You smiled as if to say, “That’s odd,”
     And then you built Desiring God.
Assistant, then executive,
     And then director as you give
And give in ev’ry post, and then
     By grace executive again.
And so much friendship in between.
     How many exploits we have seen!
The time will not suffice to tell
     Of Michael Card, or what befell
With Gowdy, Tucker, Padgett, or
     The dozen other jousts, and more,
We fought, or travels to the first
     Of twenty Passions as they burst
Like fire on the two six eight
     Young generation, or the great
Adventure at the Eagle and
     The Child, or see you take your stand
And over me break like a wave
     Of love at my dear father’s grave.

At last you were a writer with
     The wisdom of a sage, a smith
Of words born out of pain, more real
     More true, more tender, blessed to heal,
And loved by thousands through their tears
     Of hope. Now after thirty years
Together, Pam is right, I guess.
     The work is done and I must bless
The One who gave me such a friend,
     A treasure that will never end.