Sue -
Father: Gerald Patrick Sullivan
Mother: Mary Jean Slack Sullivan

Relatives:
Dr. Robert N. Slack
Judge Robert Winfield Slack
Susan Mary "Sue" Riley Clagett
Susan Riney
Philip Arnold
Edwin Carliile Litsey, the poet laureate of Kentucky

John -
Father: William Lafayette Andrews, Jr
Mother: Elizabeth Jane Early Andrews

Brothers:
Joel
Bill

Children:
Joseph Michael Andrews
John Patrick Andrews
Gerald Nicholas Andrews
Elizabeth Mary Andrews Lynch
Mark Sullivan Andrews
Kathleen Teresa Andrews
Anthony Gabriel Andrews
Lawrence Sullivan Andrews
Patrick Sullivan Andrews

Other Family Members:
Frank Maxwell Andrews
John Summerfield Andrews
Thomas Andrews, father of Bishop Lancelot Andrews
Charles George Koehr
Emma Sophia Traunmiller
Dale Walker Andrews
John Andrews Murrell
Thomas Henry Malone
Sidney Lanier
James Sheridan Knowles
Richard Brinsley Sheridan
Joseph Merrill Hoeffel
Christopher Shea

By Bill, December 1963, Father Ryan High School newspaper, The Moina, Nashville:

"In Memoriam
Our President is dead, lying in state;
Slain by someone's fanatic hate.
The killer has paid for this heinous crime
Which shall live in infamy for all time.

Three years ago President Kennedy said to the people of the United States in his acceptance speech: "I am here not to curse the darkness, only to light a candle." He lit his candle and although it was put out on November 22, it will always be remembered for illuminating those ideals upon which our nation exists. His was a short life, a short lived administration, and a briefly explored frontier. His dedication to his New Frontier will perpetually live in the hearts of men striving for peace, truth, world happiness, liberty, and the suppression of oppression. The reason is simply because his frontier, his mission, and his purpose constituted and was dedicated to this end. With him dies his frontier and many of its fulfillments incompleted by his murder. There will be other frontiers just as there will be other presidents and administrations, but never again will his youthful vitality, vigor, and efforts cry out. His unceasing frustrations, responsibilities, and obligations are now gone, but never the achievements and memory of John Fitzgerald Kennedy, 35th President of the United States. Now he can rest in peace."

(Poem Bill wrote at age 18 or so):

SUFFER THE CHILDREN

The Lord gave to Moses millennia past
A code which today seems outlandishly crass
Remember the day when consenting adults
Could not kill offspring with physical faults

Imagine the problems posed by the case
Of millions of aged refusing to face
Painless termination in the interest of space
So strong, healthy bodies could produce in their place.

Moribund, sanctimonious men of the past
Believed in innate value of life to the last
Observe the rewards of the bountiful life
A color TV, a car for the wife

If this you desire, you must realize
If failure with pills, you abort, sterilize
Sentimental moralists who sicken at this
Must remember that now there are new idealists

Hansel and Gretel, they're safe in their beds
The witch that deceived them is purportedly dead
But children be wary, take note of the times
The instinct parental is in its decline

Apologists for progress have come to deny
That life is worth living with no share of the pie
At lush cocktail parties our witch reappears
And walks off with children, boozed nobody fears

The people of Sparta, they've finally devised
A way to purge children unwanted alive
From rocky ravines in their sleep they were flung
And the Delphian Sybil an oracle sung:

"Blessed be children unable to take
The grand gift of life for population sake
Love is a gift, love is a life
Love can't be withheld using a knife."

Holden Caulfield, where have you gone?
The witch is out prowling, pursued by the dawn
Your sister, Phoebi, is frightened and cold
Your parents sold her to the witch for some gold

Now they'll be healthy, wealthy and wise
Now they'll have status, all money will buy
Aye, why, in the rye field she cries!
Catch her, hold her, sing lullabies

Suffer the children, Come unto Me
So spoke that fisher of men from the sea
Infants be kissed by the powers that be
But Jesus was strung up, nailed to a tree

Many's the time, many's the place
Wind rustled spirits come in all haste
Given His word, dead infants revere
Their Savior's will that they soon reappear

THE JOY OF BILL
Eulogy by Jeff Hardin
May 30, 2020

I want to begin by saying I loved Bill. He was easy to love. He was a joy to love because joy and love permeated everything he said and did. Bill loved effortlessly, without reservation, so I hope to remind us all how easy it has been to love Bill because, as we gather here today, losing Bill is impossibly hard.

Giving him back to the brilliant, creative, astoundingly generous God who thought him up, who created him, who knew we would need his presence; giving him back to the God who gave him to us—a gift for all these years—is devastatingly difficult. At the same time, strangely it is also easy, and a joy, made possible because of love. His love and God's love. We are told to give thanks in all things, so I give thanks for Bill. I give thanks for his friendship, his mentorship, and especially his fellowship.

Some people's lives you just want to belong to, and that's how I felt about Bill from the first semester I came to know him. Fall 1994. Back then he was younger than I am now—I was 25. I taught a class across from his office. I didn't realize it at first, but he was listening in on my teaching. Soon, many conversations began; and I see now that those conversations will always be a part of me. They have shaped how I think about knowledge, and students, and politics, and poetry, and faith. They shape how I think a man should conduct himself in our fallen world.

How sad that we don't remember conversations word for word because I would love to recount our conversations in Bill's office, talking about Emerson, Thoreau, or John Henry Cardinal Newman, about the value of reading, about how a great photograph tells a story. If I don't remember the words we shared, I do remember our enthusiasm. I remember the motion of Bill's finger accentuating a point, how he would reposition his body's stance as if in sync with his mind trying to get at something more clearly. His face beamed, pursuing a thought. I remember how Bill made me feel in the presence of a man who was truly awake, expansive in everything. Thoreau said, "To be awake is to be alive. I have never yet met a man who was quite awake. How could I have looked him in the face?"

It turns out you can look an "awake" man in the face, and it turns out it feels like home. It feels intimate—full of encouragement and wise counsel and a sense of wonder that we even exist at all.

Enthusiasm leapt out of Bill's whole being. Bill's Facebook profile picture should have been a big yellow "WOW" emoji that took up the whole screen.

As far as I know, Bill had only two faces. The first was the smiling, enthusiastic, almost on the verge of an epiphany face. He could smile and arch his eyebrows at the same time. Whether hopping down out of his truck and bouncing along the sidewalk into the Clement building or pivoting—actually a kind of dance move—through the door of Clement 204 or encouraging a student who hadn't done so well on a test, when was Bill ever not smiling? I don't teach math, and those of you who knew him better can correct me, but I estimate that he was smiling 92% of the time…for 74 years.

The second face—I don't know what to call it, maybe the serious, erudite face—would suddenly appear in the middle of a conversation or lecture. This was the face that relayed an important distinction about something, the face that offered a historical clarification. Even that face, though, was in service to the other one. He was all joy.

It has been easy to adore and to admire Bill. What an enormously-souled presence he has been. Generosity, for him, was natural and effortless. When I was just beginning at Columbia State, I noted that he sometimes ordered pizzas for his classes. I never had a professor who did that. Could I sign up for one of his classes? I even told him one time that if he wanted to adopt me, he could. I was only half-joking.

His office was a hub of canisters of Hershey's chocolate, laughter, chess matches, philosophical discussions, more laughter, more chocolate (a few less after I snuck in a grabbed a handful between classes), and bookshelves weighed down with tomes of knowledge. He usually left his office door open when he was in class, and even that small detail seems symbolic now of how open he was. His heart was open—inviting, embracing.

Bill's photographs line the walls of the second floor of the Clement building. Ireland, Barcelona, Afghanistan, and so many other locations. Students (and I) have traveled the world through Bill's eyes. Bill's love was global. His love of people's faces, in particular, reveals how miraculous he found each person he met. I know he visited Machu Picchu in Peru, and one of my favorite poets, Pablo Neruda, wrote a poem about this place. In the opening lines, he uses the word "largess," a word that aptly describes Bill—generous and "strident," a titan of beatitudes, as he bounded over the earth, calling us, too, to reach new heights and to breathe a rarified, purer air.

Bill never slowed down—playing tennis, riding horseback, driving all over the country to take photographs, serving as a Civil War re-enactor, running with the bulls in Pamplona. About golf he once said that it might be worth taking up if it could be "played on a timer."

Bill and I used to play epic games of ping-pong between classes. In fact, I think the powers-that-be eventually removed the ping-pong table from the Student Center because word got out that these two wayward faculty members were having too much fun, our legend growing. For the record, I beat him more often than he beat me even though he won his fair share of games. Often he would be drenched in sweat and have to return to teach a class. The rule was simple: whoever lost had to confess defeat to his classes. I would see students in the hallway who would say, "You sure ran Andrews through the ringer today." We bonded over those games.

After the first game was finished, Bill would said, "Okay, best two out of three." He was so fun-lovingly competitive. The best part about playing him was that no matter who landed a spectacular shot, both of us would whoop and cheer. At such a moment, winning or losing didn't matter. Ping-pong is a kind of art, like photography, like poetry. Skill is skill, but serendipity reigns; and sometimes it's almost impossible to tell the difference. But a beautiful shot curving midair and landing impossibly on the very tip-edge of the table? A moment like that doesn't come along too often. It's like an epiphany made manifest. It's like the impossible suddenly becoming possible. I witnessed the impossible made possible many times in Bill's presence. And not just with ping pong.

And isn't that true of almost every moment of life? The moment is impossible, yet it is; and we're actually in the frame, and the shutter snaps, and we have the proof. It's impossible that my world and Bill's world ever came together, but they did, and that, too, I believe, is God's love and God's grace impossibly made possible, God's thoughts inclining us-ward, taking me out of Savannah, TN, and placing me here where I would come to know Bill.

Even in this time of grief, I want to remind us of the endless joy of Bill. Romans 12 talks about "the one who exhorts, in his exhortation; the one who contributes, in generosity; the one who leads, with zeal; the one who does acts of mercy, with cheerfulness." That's Bill entirely and humbly and without reservation.

Because of bad hearing in one of his ears, he always leaned in close so that every conversation had an intimacy to it. He, too, inclined us-ward. About a year and half ago, in a series of "People Are Miracles" posts, in the one I wrote about Bill, which he read, I said, "As far as I'm concerned, we can't get close enough."

I will miss his intimate voice leaning toward me, but I am so fortunate to have ever come to know that voice and to know Bill. I'll say it again: Bill was easy to love. He was a joy to love because joy and love (and enthusiasm and cheerfulness) leapt from him, gathering us into a deeper appreciation of this shared and abundant existence.

Lord, did you ever create anyone who loved living more than Bill?

Sue -
Father: Gerald Patrick Sullivan
Mother: Mary Jean Slack Sullivan

Relatives:
Dr. Robert N. Slack
Judge Robert Winfield Slack
Susan Mary "Sue" Riley Clagett
Susan Riney
Philip Arnold
Edwin Carliile Litsey, the poet laureate of Kentucky

John -
Father: William Lafayette Andrews, Jr
Mother: Elizabeth Jane Early Andrews

Brothers:
Joel
Bill

Children:
Joseph Michael Andrews
John Patrick Andrews
Gerald Nicholas Andrews
Elizabeth Mary Andrews Lynch
Mark Sullivan Andrews
Kathleen Teresa Andrews
Anthony Gabriel Andrews
Lawrence Sullivan Andrews
Patrick Sullivan Andrews

Other Family Members:
Frank Maxwell Andrews
John Summerfield Andrews
Thomas Andrews, father of Bishop Lancelot Andrews
Charles George Koehr
Emma Sophia Traunmiller
Dale Walker Andrews
John Andrews Murrell
Thomas Henry Malone
Sidney Lanier
James Sheridan Knowles
Richard Brinsley Sheridan
Joseph Merrill Hoeffel
Christopher Shea

By Bill, December 1963, Father Ryan High School newspaper, The Moina, Nashville:

"In Memoriam
Our President is dead, lying in state;
Slain by someone's fanatic hate.
The killer has paid for this heinous crime
Which shall live in infamy for all time.

Three years ago President Kennedy said to the people of the United States in his acceptance speech: "I am here not to curse the darkness, only to light a candle." He lit his candle and although it was put out on November 22, it will always be remembered for illuminating those ideals upon which our nation exists. His was a short life, a short lived administration, and a briefly explored frontier. His dedication to his New Frontier will perpetually live in the hearts of men striving for peace, truth, world happiness, liberty, and the suppression of oppression. The reason is simply because his frontier, his mission, and his purpose constituted and was dedicated to this end. With him dies his frontier and many of its fulfillments incompleted by his murder. There will be other frontiers just as there will be other presidents and administrations, but never again will his youthful vitality, vigor, and efforts cry out. His unceasing frustrations, responsibilities, and obligations are now gone, but never the achievements and memory of John Fitzgerald Kennedy, 35th President of the United States. Now he can rest in peace."

(Poem Bill wrote at age 18 or so):

SUFFER THE CHILDREN

The Lord gave to Moses millennia past
A code which today seems outlandishly crass
Remember the day when consenting adults
Could not kill offspring with physical faults

Imagine the problems posed by the case
Of millions of aged refusing to face
Painless termination in the interest of space
So strong, healthy bodies could produce in their place.

Moribund, sanctimonious men of the past
Believed in innate value of life to the last
Observe the rewards of the bountiful life
A color TV, a car for the wife

If this you desire, you must realize
If failure with pills, you abort, sterilize
Sentimental moralists who sicken at this
Must remember that now there are new idealists

Hansel and Gretel, they're safe in their beds
The witch that deceived them is purportedly dead
But children be wary, take note of the times
The instinct parental is in its decline

Apologists for progress have come to deny
That life is worth living with no share of the pie
At lush cocktail parties our witch reappears
And walks off with children, boozed nobody fears

The people of Sparta, they've finally devised
A way to purge children unwanted alive
From rocky ravines in their sleep they were flung
And the Delphian Sybil an oracle sung:

"Blessed be children unable to take
The grand gift of life for population sake
Love is a gift, love is a life
Love can't be withheld using a knife."

Holden Caulfield, where have you gone?
The witch is out prowling, pursued by the dawn
Your sister, Phoebi, is frightened and cold
Your parents sold her to the witch for some gold

Now they'll be healthy, wealthy and wise
Now they'll have status, all money will buy
Aye, why, in the rye field she cries!
Catch her, hold her, sing lullabies

Suffer the children, Come unto Me
So spoke that fisher of men from the sea
Infants be kissed by the powers that be
But Jesus was strung up, nailed to a tree

Many's the time, many's the place
Wind rustled spirits come in all haste
Given His word, dead infants revere
Their Savior's will that they soon reappear

THE JOY OF BILL
Eulogy by Jeff Hardin
May 30, 2020

I want to begin by saying I loved Bill. He was easy to love. He was a joy to love because joy and love permeated everything he said and did. Bill loved effortlessly, without reservation, so I hope to remind us all how easy it has been to love Bill because, as we gather here today, losing Bill is impossibly hard.

Giving him back to the brilliant, creative, astoundingly generous God who thought him up, who created him, who knew we would need his presence; giving him back to the God who gave him to us—a gift for all these years—is devastatingly difficult. At the same time, strangely it is also easy, and a joy, made possible because of love. His love and God's love. We are told to give thanks in all things, so I give thanks for Bill. I give thanks for his friendship, his mentorship, and especially his fellowship.

Some people's lives you just want to belong to, and that's how I felt about Bill from the first semester I came to know him. Fall 1994. Back then he was younger than I am now—I was 25. I taught a class across from his office. I didn't realize it at first, but he was listening in on my teaching. Soon, many conversations began; and I see now that those conversations will always be a part of me. They have shaped how I think about knowledge, and students, and politics, and poetry, and faith. They shape how I think a man should conduct himself in our fallen world.

How sad that we don't remember conversations word for word because I would love to recount our conversations in Bill's office, talking about Emerson, Thoreau, or John Henry Cardinal Newman, about the value of reading, about how a great photograph tells a story. If I don't remember the words we shared, I do remember our enthusiasm. I remember the motion of Bill's finger accentuating a point, how he would reposition his body's stance as if in sync with his mind trying to get at something more clearly. His face beamed, pursuing a thought. I remember how Bill made me feel in the presence of a man who was truly awake, expansive in everything. Thoreau said, "To be awake is to be alive. I have never yet met a man who was quite awake. How could I have looked him in the face?"

It turns out you can look an "awake" man in the face, and it turns out it feels like home. It feels intimate—full of encouragement and wise counsel and a sense of wonder that we even exist at all.

Enthusiasm leapt out of Bill's whole being. Bill's Facebook profile picture should have been a big yellow "WOW" emoji that took up the whole screen.

As far as I know, Bill had only two faces. The first was the smiling, enthusiastic, almost on the verge of an epiphany face. He could smile and arch his eyebrows at the same time. Whether hopping down out of his truck and bouncing along the sidewalk into the Clement building or pivoting—actually a kind of dance move—through the door of Clement 204 or encouraging a student who hadn't done so well on a test, when was Bill ever not smiling? I don't teach math, and those of you who knew him better can correct me, but I estimate that he was smiling 92% of the time…for 74 years.

The second face—I don't know what to call it, maybe the serious, erudite face—would suddenly appear in the middle of a conversation or lecture. This was the face that relayed an important distinction about something, the face that offered a historical clarification. Even that face, though, was in service to the other one. He was all joy.

It has been easy to adore and to admire Bill. What an enormously-souled presence he has been. Generosity, for him, was natural and effortless. When I was just beginning at Columbia State, I noted that he sometimes ordered pizzas for his classes. I never had a professor who did that. Could I sign up for one of his classes? I even told him one time that if he wanted to adopt me, he could. I was only half-joking.

His office was a hub of canisters of Hershey's chocolate, laughter, chess matches, philosophical discussions, more laughter, more chocolate (a few less after I snuck in a grabbed a handful between classes), and bookshelves weighed down with tomes of knowledge. He usually left his office door open when he was in class, and even that small detail seems symbolic now of how open he was. His heart was open—inviting, embracing.

Bill's photographs line the walls of the second floor of the Clement building. Ireland, Barcelona, Afghanistan, and so many other locations. Students (and I) have traveled the world through Bill's eyes. Bill's love was global. His love of people's faces, in particular, reveals how miraculous he found each person he met. I know he visited Machu Picchu in Peru, and one of my favorite poets, Pablo Neruda, wrote a poem about this place. In the opening lines, he uses the word "largess," a word that aptly describes Bill—generous and "strident," a titan of beatitudes, as he bounded over the earth, calling us, too, to reach new heights and to breathe a rarified, purer air.

Bill never slowed down—playing tennis, riding horseback, driving all over the country to take photographs, serving as a Civil War re-enactor, running with the bulls in Pamplona. About golf he once said that it might be worth taking up if it could be "played on a timer."

Bill and I used to play epic games of ping-pong between classes. In fact, I think the powers-that-be eventually removed the ping-pong table from the Student Center because word got out that these two wayward faculty members were having too much fun, our legend growing. For the record, I beat him more often than he beat me even though he won his fair share of games. Often he would be drenched in sweat and have to return to teach a class. The rule was simple: whoever lost had to confess defeat to his classes. I would see students in the hallway who would say, "You sure ran Andrews through the ringer today." We bonded over those games.

After the first game was finished, Bill would said, "Okay, best two out of three." He was so fun-lovingly competitive. The best part about playing him was that no matter who landed a spectacular shot, both of us would whoop and cheer. At such a moment, winning or losing didn't matter. Ping-pong is a kind of art, like photography, like poetry. Skill is skill, but serendipity reigns; and sometimes it's almost impossible to tell the difference. But a beautiful shot curving midair and landing impossibly on the very tip-edge of the table? A moment like that doesn't come along too often. It's like an epiphany made manifest. It's like the impossible suddenly becoming possible. I witnessed the impossible made possible many times in Bill's presence. And not just with ping pong.

And isn't that true of almost every moment of life? The moment is impossible, yet it is; and we're actually in the frame, and the shutter snaps, and we have the proof. It's impossible that my world and Bill's world ever came together, but they did, and that, too, I believe, is God's love and God's grace impossibly made possible, God's thoughts inclining us-ward, taking me out of Savannah, TN, and placing me here where I would come to know Bill.

Even in this time of grief, I want to remind us of the endless joy of Bill. Romans 12 talks about "the one who exhorts, in his exhortation; the one who contributes, in generosity; the one who leads, with zeal; the one who does acts of mercy, with cheerfulness." That's Bill entirely and humbly and without reservation.

Because of bad hearing in one of his ears, he always leaned in close so that every conversation had an intimacy to it. He, too, inclined us-ward. About a year and half ago, in a series of "People Are Miracles" posts, in the one I wrote about Bill, which he read, I said, "As far as I'm concerned, we can't get close enough."

I will miss his intimate voice leaning toward me, but I am so fortunate to have ever come to know that voice and to know Bill. I'll say it again: Bill was easy to love. He was a joy to love because joy and love (and enthusiasm and cheerfulness) leapt from him, gathering us into a deeper appreciation of this shared and abundant existence.

Lord, did you ever create anyone who loved living more than Bill?