There are teachers who have taught me through speaking. I have heard some very engaging and even life-changing lectures over the years. I have been present when it seemed as if the teacher was speaking directly to me alone only to find that there was a classroom of students who were moved and touched by the lecture. There are teachers who have taught me by writing books. I often pull a familiar book from my shelves and it is like greeting an old friend. Some authors are people whom I have never met and yet they are so real in terms of their impact on my life. I know I am a better person for having read their words and it follows that there are many others who also have been shaped by their writing.

In my life there have been a few great teachers whose lessons came from the core of their being. It wasn’t what they said, what they wrote, or even what they did as much as who they were.

My first reaction upon hearing of the death of Rev. Norman Blue Coat is that we have lost a great teacher. That is only partially true, however, because the lessons he has taught remain and can still be learned for those who have the willingness to learn. Norman’s body may have worn out. The effects of the cancer may have become too toxic for more days in our way of counting time. There is, however, no doubt in my mind that his presence and his influence is still very much present in so many lives that his lessons will continue. I know I will be telling his story for the rest of my life.

I remember his ordination. He, Hampton Andrews and Mike Kills Pretty Enemy were ordained in a joint service in Pierre. There were lots of accolades, a few gifts exchanged, and plenty of conference pomp and ceremony. It was evident, however, that what we were doing was acknowledging a truth that had existed long before we got around to the ceremony. No one who had ever been with Norman as he served his congregations, or stood with the small crowd gathered at a gravesite on a windswept hillside, or listened to one of his prayers ever doubted that Norman was a minister. None of us who were present for the laying on of hands had any illusions that we somehow held the power to make anything happen. God called those three elders to be ministers and we were simply acknowledging what was already a truth.

Norman understood what it means to live with his people. The people he was called to serve have no high salaries, luxurious ways of life, opulent parsonages, or special benefits for their ministers. They are good hearted and generous, but a life of service in their midst is a life of poverty by the standards of the world. Norman was willing to patiently work on aging and broken vehicles, drive children and grandchildren and great grandchildren to school every day, scrounge for enough coats and mittens to keep everyone warm and be careful in the management of resources to assure that there was enough food for everyone who showed up. There was always room for one more at the table and a space for another to sleep when necessary. Norman never made any efforts to separate himself from his people. Even after being awarded honors and distinctions he never behaved as if he had any position or privilege. You’d find him in the back row when he deserved to sit at the head table.

Norman, better than most of my colleagues, understood grief. He officiated at a lot more funerals than most of us. Elders, children, teens, tragedies, sudden and traumatic losses, lingering illnesses. Death is no stranger on the Reservation and Norman was no stranger to death. If a funeral took several days, Norman invested the time. In the weeks when they stacked up and there were too many to attend, Norman went from one to the next. For those of us who were honored to occasionally attend a service, there was always Norman’s warm greeting and hug. His smile was reassuring even in a time of loss. On first view, you might not notice how much Norman was in charge. He was quiet and preferred to work behind the scenes, speaking to elders and pastors inviting them to say a few words here or there, lining up the order of events in his mind. Then, when the service started, you paid attention because Norman was introducing people and asking them to speak. He didn’t so much ask you to speak as he told you that is what would happen. And when he introduced you it felt as if you have been given a huge honor. People didn’t say, “no” to Norman very often. He didn’t ask for much.

I’ve attended a lot of funerals. I’ve officiated at quite a few. No one ever got the graveside ceremony better than Norman. He had his pocket sized book of worship. He would take it out and open it. He used the words that are on the pages, but he didn’t need to read them. They were in his heart. It wasn’t so much a sense of the mental exercise of memorization, but rather a deep, intimacy born of use and repetition. He had said the words so often that they were no longer external. The were a part of his identity. He knew what was important and how to bring closure in the midst of the deep pain of grief. Then, slowly, one step at a time, you go on.

I never saw him rush or panic. I’ve worked side by side and shoulder to shoulder with him. I know he was a hard worker and could accomplish a lot, but he had no need to move quickly or inefficiently.

The lesson he taught with which I struggle the most, yet the one I most hope to learn is humility. He was simply at home being himself with no need for recognition or accolade. He was happy to simply be present and to listen. I will always think of him as I struggle to learn this difficult life lesson.

The Lakota phrase Mitakuye Oyasin is more of prayer than it is an expression of a worldview. Roughly translated, “all are related,” it speaks of the deep interconnected of all living things. It is true. Norman is forever a part of my life. I pray for those moments when I allow him to shine.

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