Notes from the President

My Dad died a week before Christmas. Lewis Hart was 93 and a half, and he had lived a full and satisfying life. Born and raised, along with four brothers, on a homestead farm in northern Idaho, he was typical of generations of Loma Linda University alumni who came from the fields and farms of this country to train for service to the world. After graduation, they chaired their church and school boards, gave liberally to their favorite causes, and became the foundation of many local communities. They started mission hospitals — in fact, nearly two new hospitals every year during the first half of the 1900s.

Dad’s parents struggled to survive and feed the family during those early years living on the side of Moscow Mountain. Eking out a living from the land and forest around them, they all learned hard work, stretching what little they had, and often going without. When Dad told me how my Grandpa cut and split a load of firewood, then hauled it by sleigh into town to trade for a pair of shoes for one of his boys, it made me both humble and proud. They determined to send each son off to Yakima Valley Academy, miles from home, believing that a Christian education was worth the sacrifice. All had successful careers, with three of the five — Walter, Lewis and Elmer — graduating from Loma Linda University School of Medicine.

Dad contracted polio while in academy in the late 1930s and had to drop out of school for a year to recover. He returned and completed two years of studies in one to graduate with his class. Then off to Walla Walla University, where he supported himself working in the bakery, majored in math, and met a young lass from Fallon, Nevada, by the name of Ruth Swanson. Married after graduation, they moved to Loveland, Colorado, where they taught at Campion Academy for two years before coming to Loma Linda University to take medicine. It was there, while they lived in a remodeled garage, that I was born, joining my older brother Ken to make the family complete. Dad graduated in 1949 (his class photo is below).

Many people think I grew up in the mission field, but not so. Dad returned to the northwest, practicing most of those early years near his birthplace, outside the little town of Troy, Idaho. Together with his partner, Omer Drury, LLU School of Medicine class of 1948, he helped anchor our little 65-member church and its 25-student, two-room school — Big Meadow Church School — what I now remember as the best child incubator in the world. Carefree times wandering the woods, catching and taming wild pets, picking fruit, bucking hay bales, driving combines, and all the other activities of growing farm boys filled my days.

When Ken and I were both studying medicine at Loma Linda University years later, Dad decided it was time for specialty training, as his polio-stricken legs were starting to limit his activities. As a “general practitioner,” he already knew how to do more than I ever would. But he came back to Loma Linda, took anesthesiology, and then we all headed to Africa over the course of three years — Mom and Dad to Malawi, Ken and his wife, Dee, to Zambia, and my wife, Judy, and I to Tanzania. Those were good years, with us occasionally meeting in the game parks and spending time together. Judy and I left Africa first, going to Johns Hopkins University to complete my studies, followed in a few years by Mom and Dad, who were then working in Nairobi. Ken and Dee served the longest, spending 15 years in Zambia, Tanzania, and Kenya. We all finally ended up back at Loma Linda, where Dad joined the department of anesthesiology; Ken joined SAC Health System as medical director; Dee joined the School of Nursing faculty; I taught in the School of Public Health; and Judy raised our kids before returning to clinic nursing.

The remarkable thing about our family story is how similar it is to so many of our LLU graduates. They often came from small schools and rural backgrounds, though that is gradually changing now. They arrived with a passion for service, driven by an innate sense that we are all expected to give back, to serve others in a way that benefits the world. My sense is that this does not come from a feeling of guilt or duty. They find joy in pursuing a dream that they know will bring completeness to their own lives. They find partners who share that commitment, and then they go — to communities small and large, to a growing diversity of employment options, taking up that mission of helping others. I would like to think Loma Linda adds to that vision and commitment, but I often wonder if we aren’t just blessed with a long lineage of students and alumni who seek out a place that shares their own values. However it happens, we are blessed and nurtured by their presence and the privilege of watching each one of them go out to seek her or his own destiny.

With this foundation, it was no surprise to many of us that LLU grads placed first in the country recently in a survey asking about finding meaning in their careers. When you are called to a cause bigger than yourself, it is only natural to feel fulfilled, because you believe you are making the world a better place. Those grads answering this survey were not my Dad’s generation, but those much younger, those who still believe they are called to care and serve.

While it is always hard to say goodbye, Dad was ready and looked forward to a well-earned rest. He never wavered in his commitment to his family, his church, and his God. They were core to who he was, and while he sometimes wondered about details, he was certainly not about to abort his basic belief that they were central to life. Mom and her dog, Spooky, are staying with us for now while we determine the best long-term plans. And the cycle of life is complete once more. I just pray that my generation, and those coming after, will never forget this commitment to others, and continue to share in the joy of service.

Good night, Dad. Rest well. See you in the morning.

Richard Hart, MD, DrPH
President
Loma Linda University Health