Brett Foster taught the first class I took at Wheaton
College: ENG 215 – Classical and Early British Literature, a 9:15 AM class I
stumbled into between 9:15 and 9:22 AM on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays during
the fall of 2006. I remember writing a rakish poem about one of my roommates in
the style of Chaucer for an assignment. A couple days after we turned in our
poems, Brett read a few of them out loud, including mine. He praised my poem
until he reached the final couplet, at which point he criticized it for closing
with an awkward slant rhyme (“times”/”realized”) that basically torpedoed the
whole thing. I was elated.
His classes were highly interactive. The students who learned
the most came prepared to throw themselves into roiling, expansive conversations.
I was not yet a good student in those days and my preparation for Brett’s class
was consistently lackluster, but I was struck by Brett’s love for his subject,
as clear and instructive to us as his obvious expertise. He offered both light
and heat: a way of seeing, but also a way of living.
I didn’t take another literature class at Wheaton, falling
instead into philosophy, but Brett always remembered my name and greeted me
whenever we passed one another in the hallway.
We occasionally ran into each other at bookstores around
town. The Half-Price Books on Army Trail Road was a place we both favored for
its large selection. He was always eager to discuss recent finds with fellow
enthusiasts. I’ve seen few people demonstrate a joy as pure as his in the
discovery, collection, and endless reading of books.
He was generous in introducing me to his peers and
colleagues and inviting me into conversations at Calvin’s Festival of Faith and
Writing in 2014. I attended a session of his, a panel on translation that also
included John Wilson and Sarah Ruden, and got to listen to Brett dish on
Dante’s jealous contemporaries. We talked afterwards for a few minutes. He
reveled in the cheeky insults of the forgotten poets and further exposited some
of the cultural and social rivalries that fueled their disputes. When he really
got going, he turned his head and looked past me, smiling and nodding as he
talked. I skimmed along the surface of what he said, peering down at him miles
below as he bounced from idea to idea with joy.
In the spring of this year, I published an article about a
writer I love in a magazine I love, a magazine to which Brett has often
contributed. He emailed me after it was published to let me know that he
enjoyed the article and wanted to be kept apprised of my literary pursuits. It
was a short email: a small, good thing. It helped me to feel welcome—like I
belonged—and I don’t think I succeeded in articulating how much it meant to me
in the reply I sent him.
I didn’t know Brett well, but what I do know of him I am
confident to say. He was a lovely, generous, and brilliant man; he cared for many
people and expressed his care for them in tangible and specific ways; he was an
encouraging and patient teacher; he was a beautiful poet. I thank God for him.
