Pictured: Rick Bush in 2011, holding his newborn twin boys.
In June of 2001, Houston was hit by Tropical Storm Allison. Everything was flooding and destruction. No one could work. I had not seen my friend Rick in a while, so I called him and arranged lunch.
Rick and I had met in the fall of 1993 when we taught British literature to seniors at Kempner High School in Sugar Land. First impression? Rick was like an M&M: hard shell on the outside, tender on the inside. He was naturally funny, but also liked to appear mean and ornery, so I was shocked one day when my new colleague walked into the English office and began to weep, to sob really, over the horrors being experienced by a student who had just unburdened herself to him.
I discovered that Rick cared. He cared deeply. What he had hidden so well from me—from all of his coworkers—was that he had a heart of compassion. He could be a witty, irascible curmudgeon on the outside. But inside he deeply loved people, particularly his students.
Rick and I had a lot in common. We loved literature and language and words. Our conversations were amazing because Rick was an incredible listener. I might talk on some subject for twenty minutes. When I was done, it would be my turn to listen for twenty minutes as Rick would respond to everything I had said, point-by-point, in perfect order. I have never had conversations quite like that with anyone else. It was extraordinary.
Rick and I shared a classroom: he had it in the morning, while I taught elsewhere, then I had it in the afternoon, while he taught elsewhere. We saw a great deal of each other. Rick was fastidious. An obsessively neat and orderly man, the Felix Unger of the classroom. Everything on his desk was always in perfect order. The bachelor’s pantry at home was literally alphabetized. But Rick’s fertile sense of humor drew him to one odd bit of disorder: a clock. There was a clock on the cinderblock wall of our room that ran backwards. It was an analog clock, of course (the kind with hands), and Rick loved to keep it running backwards to confuse the students. But everyone knew if you unplugged it and plugged it back in, it would run forwards.
But Rick insisted we let it run backwards. We got used to it and soon I could read it at a glance. The school day would begin at the end, and run backwards all day to the beginning. And it made Rick laugh like nothing else. It was his one weird wrinkle, Rick loved the clock that ran counterclockwise.
Because we shared a classroom, I knew what sort of teacher Rick was. Our teaching styles were as different as night and day, but I often told other faculty members I hoped Rick would be available to teach my children one day. That’s how much I respected his methods as a teacher.*
Then in the mid 1990’s things began to go south for Rick. He had one health problem after another, peculiar illnesses that doctors struggled to diagnose. Car problems. Money problems. Work problems. Problems that came along in a pattern I thought I recognized.
“I think God is trying to get your attention, Rick.”
But the self-proclaimed agnostic didn’t want to hear it. Rick, the son of a career soldier, was born to a German mother and an American father. He lived in Germany until he was 13, held dual citizenship, spoke both languages fluently, and had earned a masters degree in comparative linguistics from Texas Tech (where he enjoyed a brief career as a student deejay).
He began his career teaching the German language to college students at Tech, but for reasons I have never understood, he gave that up to teach high school English. Being a good little German boy, Rick had been raised Lutheran but lost his faith somewhere along the way. He told me he was agnostic.
“It’s the Hound of Heaven, Rick. He’s on your tail.”
Rick didn’t want to hear it.
Things went on this way for eight years: Rick would tell me about a string of bizarre problems and I would always say the same thing:
“It’s the Hound of Heaven, Rick.”
“Doctors can’t figure out why I have these weird tumors in my leg.”
“It’s the Hound of Heaven, Rick.”
“As soon as I get my car running, things fall apart on the job. Then this, then that, then the other.”
“It’s the Hound of Heaven, Rick. God is trying to get your attention.”
“Every time I date a girl, this happens, that happens, and everything turns into some hopeless existentialist novel.”
“It’s the Hound of Heaven, Rick.”
(By the way, Rick is the only person to whom I have ever mentioned the Hound of Heaven! I was just certain. There was an odd pattern to the struggles in his life, and it looked like God was in it, somehow. I’ve never seen the same pattern in the life of anyone else. But in Rick’s case, I couldn’t shake the conviction. So I kept telling him that God was after him, and that he should stop running.)
Then Tropical Storm Allison hit Houston on June 11, 2001. No one would be working the next day, and I hadn’t talked to Rick in a while. So we made plans. And I had this feeling. On the morning of June 12, 2001, I told my wife:
“I think Rick is going to give his life to Christ today.”
Rick and I met at a hamburger joint on Highway 6 at Grisby. It was the hottest, humid-est day of the year. Of course, if you know Rick, you know Rick wanted to sit outside.
“But it’s so hot!”
And Rick said what he always said: “it’s not hot. It’s temperate.”
“Well, Shakespeare, it’s a pretty HIGH temperate.” But I went along with it.
We sat outside. Rick talked to me for hours. We re-visited some things we had spoken of before: job problems, people problems, health problems. Problems he could not solve—problems I certainly could not solve. Life can be hard—and Rick’s life had been one challenge after another—for eight years.
Rick was not happy. He wept.
“Steve, my entire life is a disaster. I’ve got nothing to show for it. It’s all been a colossal waste. I’ve wasted every opportunity. I’ve blown every chance I’ve had. My whole life is just a complete waste.”
He talked a long time. This was a confessional.
So I listened. And he wept and choked out his regrets and I guess we ate a little or played with our food or something. I know we perspired.
What do you say to a man who has NO HOPE?
I knew what it was like to have no hope. I KNEW HOPELESSNESS.
There is nothing you can say.
And Rick was much too smart to find comfort in easy answers.
So I said nothing.
He talked on.
Finally, after two hours, he was spent. He had said his piece.
I sat in silence. What can you say to a man who has just made an accounting of his entire life and found it worthless?
When Job’s life fell apart his friends sat with him in silence for seven days.
I didn’t have seven days.
Finally, I spoke.
“Rick. You know what I’m gonna say. It’s the HOUND OF HEAVEN. You will remain unhappy until you find your joy in HIM.”
I talked slowly. Letting the words linger. For the first time, I knew he was going to let me finish. He had stopped this conversation many times, telling me “When I’m ready to have that conversation, I want to have it with you. But I’m not ready.”
This time, I thought he was ready. I went on.
“God loves you. Jesus died for you. He can wash you clean. Make you whole. He is the REDEEMER! He can bring worth to your life. He can restore VALUE to a life that looks wasted to you right now. He’s been after you for years. It’s time to stop running. It’s time to surrender.”
And that’s what he did. Rick was thirty-four years old when he took ownership of his life, his sins, his brokenness. He OWNED all of it. He took that whole ball of brokenness and what he accounted as worthlessness, and he rolled that over to Jesus. He gave it up. He placed his whole life in the hands of Jesus. He stopped running. He stopped fighting. He surrendered. On June 12, 2001, sitting under the blazing noonday sun in Houston, Texas, Rick gave his life to Christ.
Rick SURRENDERED ALL TO JESUS. And it changed his entire life!
But the Rick I met eight years before was a skeptic. If he were sitting where you are, he would ask whether it was real—and how can you be so sure?
Here’s how you can be sure. Because Jesus changes lives. I wish I could tell you how dramatically Rick’s life changed that day. If I had a clock that ran counterclockwise back to 2001, perhaps you could see the dramatic changes that happened almost overnight. Think of it this way:
Jesus said “You will know them by their fruits” Matthew 7:20.
Rick’s life immediately began to bear fruit:
He began attending church and hardly missed a Sunday.
He was bearing fruit.
He began studying Biblical Greek so he could read the New Testament in the original language.
(Wait, what? Who does that?!)
He was bearing fruit.
After he felt competent with Greek, he began studying Hebrew. (Like that’s just something people say to themselves: I think I’ll study Hebrew now….) But he wanted to know the WORD.
He was bearing fruit.
He was trained as a soul-winner with Evangelism Explosion, and made countless visits to share the gospel with others. Now THAT is bearing fruit. What greater fruit could there be?
He was bearing fruit.
He settled into a career at Wharton County Junior College and was there 19 years—22 years if you count his years as an adjunct.
He was bearing fruit.
Rick became a writer and editor for the Society for American Baseball Research (SABR). I counted the SABR articles—he wrote over 115 articles. NOT TO MENTION, he edited FIVE of SABR’s books about baseball in the Negro Leagues. HE WAS PROLIFIC (an adjective every would-be writer hopes to hear attached to his name). He was prolific–and that is another way of saying:
He was bearing fruit.
He married Michelle in 2005. They were married 18 years.
Rick was bearing fruit.
Rick and Michelle had three sons and Rick raised them as a loving father for 15 years.
Rick’s life bore fruit.
The “Hound of Heaven” is a poem by Francis Thompson. It was written in 1890 and the language is challenging—so of course Rick would have loved it! Allow me to share just a few lines…
I fled Him, down the nights and down the days.
I fled Him, down the arches of the years.
I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways
Of my own mind; and …
I hid from Him…
From those strong Feet that followed, followed after.
… And a Voice beat
More … than the Feet— [and God said]
“All things betray thee, who betrayest Me.”
The next five stanzas chronicle the difficult life of the poet, Francis Thompson, who was addicted to opium before he surrendered to the hound of heaven.
Finally, God catches up to the man—to Thompson, the writer, to Professor Bush, to me, to you—and God speaks to all of us:
Whom wilt thou find to love thee,
Save Me, save only Me?
All which I took from thee I did but take,
Not for thy harm,
But just that thou might’st seek it in My arms.
Everything you think is lost,
I have stored for thee at home:
Rise, take My hand, and come!’
The Hound of Heaven caught up to Rick Bush.
Is He chasing you?
If Rick were here today he would tell you that he found his purpose when he found his Creator. Your life will make sense when you stop running from the God who made you. Surrender. Give him control. He will redeem you and restore value and worth and purpose to your life.
And just like He did with Rick, He will make you bear fruit!
“Where can I go from Your Spirit? Or where can I flee from Your presence? If I ascend to heaven, You are there. If I make my bed in the depths, behold, You are there” Psalm 139:7-8.
AΩ
https://www.kleinfh.com/obituary/frederick-bush
*Ironically, one of the lessons I remember most was that Rick always asked his seniors to draft their own obituaries. While it struck me as an excellent exercise (and not at all “off-topic” considering the subject matter of much British literature), parents complained about the assignment every year. I could not shake that familiar memory when I found myself involved in preparing both a spoken eulogy and parts of a written obituary for one of my best friends who was gone too soon. This was one strange case of life imitating art, and Rick would have enjoyed a lengthy conversation teasing out the implications and laughing about the twists of fate and/or the unpredictable workings of a sovereign God. I loved him. God be with you till we meet again.
Household Words: 